


Relative to Constellations

by clevelandy



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 1940s baz, :), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baz is a ghost, Foster Care, Found Family, Ghosts, Haunted House, I promise it will make sense, I've been informed that I don't know what angst is, M/M, Middle aged Penny & Shep, Nobody dies in this fic, Penelope Bunce is a Good Friend, Penny Bunce/Shepard, SnowBaz, Spooooky, This fic is set in modern times, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, also, baz is briefly a house but it’s normal and fine, but I think........this has angst, discussions of poverty and homelessness, listen you're just gonna have to bear w me for the beginning of this one, no beta this shit too long, shepard and penny are married :), sneaky references to canon hehe, unfortunately this is not a housefucking fic, unfortunately this is not a monsterfucker fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23980261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clevelandy/pseuds/clevelandy
Summary: When someone gives you a free house, you're probably going to take it. Especially if you have nowhere else to go. Even if it's worn down, vandalized, and everyone seems to think it's haunted.or,Baz is a ghost.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 106
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This fic will briefly discuss the difficulties of the American education, housing, and foster care systems, and will also develop on some of the traumas that that causes. I've done my best to do research on the subject and I hope I'm not stepping on any toes, but please let me know if there are any major discrepancies. In the US, orphanages have almost entirely been phased out and instead have been replaced by foster homes & group homes. 20% of kids who age out of foster care end up homeless, which is a theme which this fic will briefly discuss. This fic will address the struggles of this system in a similar way to how Carry On discusses them: much of Simon's beliefs and traumas are a direct result of his childhood but are only directly explained in introductory scenes. His childhood will only be explained in the first chapter.  
> You can find more information on the topic [here](https://www.nfyi.org/51-useful-aging-out-of-foster-care-statistics-social-race-media/) and [here.](https://www.childwelfare.gov/topics/outofhome/foster-care/)
> 
> Other than thaaaat I hope you enjoy! I had a lot of fun writing this fic and I hope you have fun reading it. The title is based off the song Downhill by Lincoln.

I don’t have an umbrella.

Maybe I should’ve seen the rain coming. The clouds surrounding the plane had been grey for a while; I could've bought an umbrella at the airport if I'd paid attention to that. I've been more preoccupied with the thought that the older woman sitting next to me in the plane wanted to punch me in the face, given that the past 8 hours with me included a wide array of annoying experiences ranging from mild fidgeting to full out bouncing on my seat.

It’s a headache getting through the airport too, which further justifies why I forgot to pick up an umbrella. Plus, there aren’t any windows once you get into customs. I almost start to forget that I'm in a new country. I did forget that that new country is prone to rain.

Finally though, once it's been established that I'm not a threat to national security and they're sure I haven't brought any exotic fruit in my duffle bag, I'm released outside. 

And it’s pouring. 

I stand under the awning as I try to plan my next move. 

I've never traveled before, so I had no idea what it would be like to be in a different country. My first glimpse at my new home is chaotic and overwhelming: damp men and women in suits running in every direction, crying children and adults alike, all pushing past me to get in or out of the building. 

Everyone sounds a little off, which I should've expected as well. I've heard British accents on TV and stuff, but it’s different when it’s everywhere. I also didn't expect it to smell different than America. The air is fat with gasoline, the sour smell of rain on asphalt, and grass. It reminds me of the walk back to the home after spending the whole day watching the rain outside of my classroom window. I take a deep breath.

I have three hours until I have to meet the lawyer, Mr. Bunce, at my new house. I'm not sure how long it takes to get from London to Lancashire, but I'm assuming it can't be too long since the country isn’t too big. But, I did send Mr. Bunce my flight number so he'd know what time I'd be in London and figure out my arrival on his own. I thought that was pretty smart on my part. 

Regardless, I don't want to keep him waiting, so I planned to catch a cab and immediately start heading over to the house. 

It takes me more than a few moments of staring dumbly at the chaos to realize that the taxis are black here. I make up for the loss of time by running to the first open taxi and immediately climbing inside.

"Hey," I say, setting my bag down next to me. The run wasn’t as effective as I thought it would be at repelling rain, so I’m already dripping onto the leather seat. I hope the man doesn’t mind.

The inside of the car looks weird for a second before I realize it's because the driver is sitting where the passenger's seat should be. He’s a balding man with a scowl on his face and he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that his car is deformed. He sets his phone down on the seat next to him when I click my seatbelt on. 

“Where ya headed, mate?” He asks after a moment, turning in his seat to look at me. His eyes are a little too close together, and for a second that's all I can focus on. Then I notice that his nose looks like it's been smashed in. By the time I remember that he asked me a question he's got an ugly sneer on his red lips.

“Oh, um.” I fumble through my pockets for a moment, looking for the slip of paper that I wrote the address on. "My bad. It's, um, here."

I reach forward to hand him the slip of paper. It's just a damp piece of notebook paper, not a napkin or anything, but he still makes a face as if I just handed him a used tissue. He reads it for a second before sneering at me again.

"You wanna go all the way to Lancashire?" He raises his bushy eyebrows at me. I frown. If it takes that long to get there then maybe I should find a pay-phone and call Mr. Bunce. I don’t have a cell phone or anything, but if I have to get into a different cab I might as well stop and warn him. 

"Yes, sir," I say, grasping for the seatbelt in preparation to get out. His eyebrows go further up his bare forehead. Soon they’ll join his hairline at the back of his head. "Is that... okay?" 

He doesn't respond for a moment, instead opting to look at me like he's trying to read something written on my face. His eyes make me uncomfortable. They're a little too sunken into his head and I can't hold his gaze. He must not be able to hold mine either because in a second he's staring at my neck. I lift my hand instinctively and grab my necklace. The cab driver’s eyes jerk away from my neck. That makes me feel worse.

I unclip my seatbelt and reach for the door handle, resigning to find another cab.

"Oi, relax, I'll take you there," He grumbles quickly, slamming his hand down so the locks activate. I jump in my seat, eyes wide, but he turns back around with a huff and starts the car. It rumbles with a grumpy resignation at being awoken before he reaches over and taps his hand on the meter on his dashboard. "It's quite the distance though. It'll probably rack up quite a bit of cash."

He isn't keen on giving me the option to back out. I could open the lock without issue and jump out of the car, but he’s already adjusting his mirrors and buckling his seatbelt. Maybe it isn’t common practice to drive to Lancashire, so he’s doing me a favor. There’s the chance he wants to kidnap me too, but I don’t see difficulty fighting him off.

"That’s okay, thank you," I say. I'm just grateful that I have a way to get there. It is a lie in more than one way. It's not okay, considering I don't have a job or anything anymore. I saved most of my paychecks from the past two months in preparation, but a huge chunk of that went to the flight alone. I don't have any other options though. It's not like I can walk there. 

"Alright," he says, and then he's turning off into the street. 

The driver's seat being on the wrong side was the first disorienting part about this car ride, but what's even worse is that he's driving on the wrong side of the road too. I have to hold myself back from letting out a shout when he first pulls out onto the left side of the street. I'm glad I bit my tongue; everyone else seems to be following suit. 

The taxi driver swerves between cars like his job depends on it (I guess it kinda does). I want to tell him to relax, that I’m not in a hurry. But that seems rude, and I _am_ in a hurry. People are flicking him off left and right, which I feel sorta bad about. He doesn't seem to notice.

Watching what’s happening ahead of us makes me nervous, so instead, I turn to look out the window and lift my necklace to my mouth. It’s a golden cross, the necklace, and I’ve had it since I was born, as far as I know. The necklace is probably my favorite possession, which is an easy gig since I don’t have a lot. It’s not like I sit around and stare at it or anything, it’s pretty plain, it’s just nice to have. It reminds me that I came from somewhere. 

I’ve always assumed that my parents gave it to me before they died. At least, I think they died. It isn’t good to hope someone’s dead, especially not your parents, but the alternative makes me feel sort of bad about myself. I try not to think about it too much.

Anyway, though I’ve gotten a few gifts from kind foster parents, it’s never been anything like this. But it had to come from somebody, somebody who cared about me too. The necklace is real gold. And it’s sturdy.

I tend to chew on it when I’m nervous. There have been foster parents who’ve tried to get me to stop, but the lessons never stuck. I should be trying to stop myself since I don’t want to break it. Maybe later.

It’s still raining outside when we leave the surrounding grounds of the airport, just not as hard as when I stepped outside. If I waited a few minutes then my ass wouldn’t be drenched. It’s hard to mind how the rain clearing away lets me see my surroundings better though. I'm pretty sure, after staring at street signs long enough, that we aren't driving through London. That's a shame; I wanted to see what skyscrapers looked like from far away. One day I'll make a trip back. 

Soon, with the speed he’s going, we’re outside of what seems to be the urban area. Things are starting to look a lot greener by the time the driver speaks to me again. I'm wondering why he doesn't have his name printed anywhere when his voice grumbles to a start.

”They don’t got umbrellas in America?” I look up to see him watching me through the rearview mirror. The glass makes his _skin_ look green too. 

”Huh?” He doesn’t move to elaborate, which is good. I heard him, I just needed a second to respond. “Uh, yeah. We do. I just... didn’t think it would be raining.” 

“Kid, it’s always raining here,” He laughs grittily. He laughs like he's just played a trick on me. There's nothing about him that I like. Not even his laugh. “So, why Lancashire? You visiting family or something?”

”No... not really. I don’t have a family,” I respond, cross still between my teeth. I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth. It isn't the smartest thing to tell a stranger that you don't have anyone waiting on you.

I further regret it when he jerks around in his seat to look back at me, eyebrows furrowed. The car jerks with his movement and he briefly swerves into the adjacent lane. A prolonged honk comes from the car next to us as it stops to avoid hitting us. I let out a shout, gripping the seat with both hands. The necklace slides from my mouth.

The driver huffs and sits back down like nothing happened, swerving back in line and honking back. He yawns as he does it.

I turn around in my seat to see what happened. The other driver didn’t hit anyone, luckily, but a few other cars swerved and stopped. I sit back down and quickly re-clip my seatbelt, smooth my hands over my wet thighs, and try to soothe my own pounding heart with deep breaths. I'm still gawking when his gruff voice starts up again.

"Then what are you doing here?" I don’t respond at first. I don't want to tell him anything else about me. At the same time, I don’t want him to stare at me again and get us killed. 

"I, uh, got a call that said I, um, inherited a house," I pause, then hurriedly add: "I have a lawyer waiting to meet me there. He, um, said he'd be there."

“And you believed them?” He asks, switching lanes without turning on his signal.

”Yeah I- why wouldn’t I? They called from some sort of agency."

"Anyone can say they're from anywhere, kid." Everything this guy says makes me nervous. Anyone can say they're a cab driver. "So, what, you coming out here to sell it?"

"No, I'm planning on moving in." I cross my arms over my chest, chewing on the inside of my lip. He should be as invested in the road as he is in me. 

"Ah," He replies like my answer is boring him or something. Suddenly, I’m not the most interesting thing in the world. He reaches over and turns the radio on, but I'm not in the clear yet. "And you didn't think to take the train?"

"What?"

"You would've had to have made a few connections, but it would've been cheaper." I can see a smirk pulling back his cheeks. "Shame, that." 

Fuck. 

It didn't occur to me to take the train. I've been taking public transit my whole life and it didn't occur to me to take the fucking train. Is this why the driver’s been so weird? Because he’s taking money from me?

I frown and lift my necklace back to my lips, turning to look out the window to avoid the way he keeps looking at me through the mirror. It's fine, I think. It'll be fine. I'll start looking for work as soon as I get to the house. Plus, I don't have that many things to pay for. Just the cab ride, food, and, well...

Listing isn't helping me calm down, especially since I don't know what to expect once I get there. I have no idea what any of the expenses of homeownership are. I have no idea if I'll be able to find work in Lancashire either. 

Maybe I should've just stayed home. It was stupid to travel across the world just for a house.

It had seemed like the right option at first.

I've been in the foster care system my whole life. When I was younger I got juggled from foster house to foster house. But, when my C's started to become D's and "shy" became "communicates poorly” they stopped trying to find new foster parents for me. I spent the last few years living in a group home- which was fine. At least I got to sleep in the same bed every night. 

Then, when I turned 17, the ladies working at the group home started teaching me how to live on my own. Age out, they called it. They told me I'd be welcome to stay for a couple more years if I had a good reason, but they also made it clear that they needed the extra bed. Homelessness was not a good enough reason. They told me I could stay if I went to college, but even the community place down the street was too expensive. They told me about programs where the government helps kids in my condition pay for an apartment, but none of my applications got responses. They told me to get a job, but I could only make so much working at the grocery store. I didn't make enough for rent. Anywhere. 

By the time I finished my senior year of high school all I could think about was how I wouldn't have anywhere to stay. It kept me up at night. I walked across the stage to receive my diploma and knew that the only thing the piece of paper meant was that I had two months before I'd be on the streets. All I could do was work and wait for the day I'd have to move out. The only plan I could come up with was printing walking directions to the nearest soup kitchen.

So it felt like a miracle when I got the call saying that I had inherited a house from some long-dead uncle. That’s the kind of thing that only happens in movies. 

I picked up as many hours as I could and bought myself a plane ticket. All I could think about after that was how I was going to have a _home_. Singular. It seemed so simple.

It doesn't feel that simple anymore. 

I feel stupid. I want to open the door and toss myself onto the speeding pavement. Maybe I could hitchhike the rest of the way there. I’d do it if the cab driver didn’t still have the paper with my address on it. Plus, if the clock on his dashboard is correct, I'm already late for my meeting. 

I take a deep breath around the metal clamped between my teeth. Things will feel better once I'm at the house. 

I'm not sure where we are, or even how long we've been driving, but our surroundings are starting to appear more residential. Hundreds and hundreds of houses fly past my windows, all tucked in close together with neatly manicured lawns.

It's not raining anymore either, at least not in this part of the country, so there are plenty of people outside enjoying the sun. People walk their dogs on short leashes. Teenagers kick around soccer balls. A couple watches on as a toddler with blond hair chases after a dog. The wife leans her head against the husband's shoulder. I feel something pang in my chest and we speed past them.

I wonder if my house looks like the ones we're driving past. They’re all uniform, brown-brick exteriors that are built upwards instead of out. I could see living in one of them. I could see waking up every morning and making myself a cup of coffee in a cramped suburban kitchen. Maybe one day I could have a toddler and cocker spaniel run around in my too-green yard.

The car skids to a stop at a stop sign in front of a giant old house. It’s the biggest one I’ve seen since landing here; it’s the only house that seems to be trying to take up space.

It has a blood-red exterior with a black roof and trims. The main building has two stories, but a cylindrical tower with a pointed roof continues higher than the rest of the house it's attached to. There's a porch wrapped around the entire front and black columns bracket a grand entrance covered by an awning. A gargoyle guards above the steepled awning over the front, but one of its spread wings is broken off. Most of the windows are boarded up.

The house looks too old to be standing. It's brick, so it's not rotting, but parts of it look like the house would sink into the ground if it weren't for the columns holding it up. Thick expanses of ivy curl up the building's exterior like it's trying to drag it back into the earth. The tower bears the brunt of it; it's so covered in ivy that you can't even see the color of the brick. The property surrounding it is lush and overgrown, and it's dotted with curved oaks and pines. The grass is too tall. Everything about the property looks like it belongs to another time. Somebody scratched a jagged "P" into the door.

I lean towards the window. The house makes my chest ache even more than the family did. I let my necklace slip from my mouth.

"Pitch..." The driver snarls suddenly. He's been stopped at the sign for too long, I realize.

"What?"

"Bitch. On the road." I look where he's gesturing. A big grey dog is standing in the middle of the road. It wags its shaggy tail once when I look up, but its lips were already curled up in a snarl.

"Oh. Um. Should I go get it to move?" The driver grunts in response, shaking his head as he puts the car in park.

"Not my problem."

"Well...isn't the house that way?" He hasn't turned in a while. How could he be going the wrong way?

"No, this is the house," He responds, nodding to the right. 

I look out the window at the house he parked in front of. This can't be it. 

"You're kidding me."

“This is the address you gave me. Are you paying cash or credit?" He turns all the way around in his seat and leans toward me again. There's an even grittier scowl on his face than what I'd seen before, and the way his hand grabs the armrest makes him look like he has claws coming from his stubby fingers. I frown, quickly grabbing my wallet and jamming the card into the reader. Wrong house be damned- I need to get out of the car.

I take my card back once it goes through, then I hand him a few bills for a tip, making sure to avert my eyes as he snatches them from me. I grab my duffle bag and climb out of the car. My legs are a little wobbly from being cramped for so long, so I pause a second to regain my balance before shutting the door. The driver has the window open.

"Good luck, Simon." He growls, and then he speeds forward. The dog is gone.

I stare after him. I never told him...

"Mr. Snow!" 

I jerk my head up towards the old house but find nobody there. He calls me again and I realize the voice is coming from behind me.

"Mr. Snow! I'm so glad you could make it!" 

The voice comes from a tall man with dark skin and hair styled upwards. He sports wired glasses, a neatly tailored suit, and a clipboard tucked to his side. He jogs towards me from a house directly across the street. I'm not sure if I should be going to him, so I just stand where I am.

"Mr. Bunce?" I ask when he gets closer. He grins, and his teeth are a dazzling white. I notice that his hair is beginning to grey. He reaches out and shakes my hand firmly. 

"Oh, you can call me Shepard. Mr. Bunce is my wife's father,” He chuckles.

"Nice to meet you, Shepard. I'm so sorry I'm late." He drops my hand and waves off my apology with a shake of his head.

“No worries. I kind of assumed you would be, given the flight. Luckily, I didn’t come from far…” There’s a joke in there, given the little smirk on his lips, but I can’t tell where it was. I can't help but turn to the house where he came from as he dismisses my apology. It's smaller and follows the scheme of the rest of the neighborhood. The lawn is cut short and there are daisies planted out front. The dog that was standing in the street is now watching us from the porch, snarl gone.

"Is that the house?" I ask.

"That's actually my house," He responds, finally letting the laugh out that he was holding in. His accent is a little weird, but I'm not sure what's wrong with it and it doesn’t feel right to ask. He sets a hand on my shoulder as he turns us back around to the titan of a house we're standing in front of. " _This_ is your house."

My jaw drops.

"You're fucking kidding me." 

Shepard frowns and looks at his clipboard, hand dropping off my shoulder. He flips through a few pages before shaking his head. 

"Nope. This is it." He looks up then, giving me a wary smile. "I know it's a little run-down. But we've had it inspected and it passes all the necessary qualifications for habitation. You shouldn't have any issue selling it."

I shake my head, looking up at the house before me.

"But it's so _big,"_ I whisper. "I didn't think... I didn't think I came from money."

"Well..."

I look at him instead of the mammoth ahead of me. His eyebrows raise above the rims of his glasses as he glances from the house to me, then back at his own house. I look too and see a woman standing on his porch. She smiles and gives a light wave, which Shepard and I both return (him happily, me hesitantly). 

"I'm sorry,” I shake my head, looking back up at him. It isn’t fair to include him in this identity crisis. “I shouldn't keep you. Is there... What do I need to do?"

"Oh! I just need you to sign these forms," He jumps, jerking back into an easy enthusiasm while lifting his clipboard and handing me a pen. "They essentially just state that you are now the legal owner of this house and that you can do with it what you wish."

I nod, quickly starting to scribble an illegible version of my name onto the forms presented.

“Where are you from?” He asks as I search through the forms.

“Um, Chicago,” I mumble. Shepard is leaning close to watch me sign, but I don’t mind it. He’ll tell me if I’m missing something, and he’s certainly the most pleasant person I’ve met here “What about you?”

“Oh, I’ve lived here for most of my life, but I’m originally from Omaha- the best city in the midwest,” He teases, nudging his shoulder against mine. I laugh in response and shake my head. 

“That’s… ridiculous.” My palms are sweaty when I hand him the clipboard back. I have to force myself to stop from bouncing in my sneakers. He’s grinning as he looks through the forms. I feel a lightness in my chest for the first time since landing. 

"Great!" He says, smiling at me after double checking all the signatures. He tucks the clipboard under his arm. There’s an easier slope to his posture now that the business is done. I’d expected him to leave as soon as I finished, so I’m surprised as he starts making easy conversation with me. "So, are you staying in the Marriott?"

"What? No, I'm... I'm staying here. I was planning on moving in."

His eyes widen. An unreadable expression passes over his face for a fraction of a second, before his smile reaches his eyes again. "Oh!"

"Why? Is there... Is there something wrong?" I wish he would’ve had this reaction before I signed the paperwork.

"No! No, nothing's wrong," He exclaims, lifting his hands in a defensive motion. He shakes his head, then continues. "No, I just assumed you'd be selling the house. Tearing it down or something. There's nothing wrong with it, per se. Especially according to the codes..."

"But...?"

"Well, it's silly. But I've lived around here for quite some time. My wife's lived here even longer. The Pitch house has always had the reputation of being, well, haunted."

I snort, immediately feeling my shoulders relax. 

"There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

He glances at the house, then gives me a tight-lipped smile while lifting his right shoulder in a shrug.

"It's all just...urban legend. Kids always tried to go in to prove they were brave enough to stay the night, but the stories just come with the house’s age. There's no truth behind it. What there is, though, is some graffiti you'll have to deal with. We've had all the locks changed and broken windows boarded, so you should have no issue with break-ins. It's safe. Just dusty.”

I nod, feeling further eased. I look up at the house. There's a short path of crumbling concrete between us and the steps leading up to the front door. The awning makes the entrance look dark. I can barely see the door. But I can see that the gargoyle perched above it has red eyes.

"Do you..." I turn, looking up at Shepard. He has a kind expression on his face, so I feel better about keeping him for another moment. "Do you have any information on who owned the house before me? The man on the phone said it belonged to an uncle who's been dead for a while, so, I thought, maybe some other family members lived here too.”

Shepard frowns pensively, looking down at his papers. He flips to the last one and holds it up so I can see. My sloping signature litters the bottom of the page, but I also see a list of three names.

"I don't have much information, but yes, it belonged to an uncle of yours. Well, an uncle of your father's. It says that it was unclaimed at the time of his death. Your father was contacted when he was of age, but he gave no response- it doesn’t say why. The firm has had custody over it until we got word that you had turned 18. So, no, nobody has legally lived in the Pitch house since your... grand-uncle did. He died sometime in the 1940s."

"1940's? Was he a... Did he die in the war?" I feel a little breathless at the thought of getting more information, insignificant as it may be. What will it mean if he died in WWII? It’s not like he’s going to come back and tell me about it, so I’m not sure why I’m so excited. I lean forward on the balls of my feet to try and see the document he’s reading from. My excitement must be visible because Shepard’s eyes go soft when he shakes his head.

"I'm sorry. I don't know. That's all the information I have about your family tree. If you’d like, I can make a copy of this sheet and bring it to you some time.”

I nod curtly, planting my feet on the ground and trying to ignore the disappointment flowering in my chest. “That's okay. Thank you."

"Do you have any other questions?

I'm not sure what to say, so I just shake my head. We stand in silence for a moment, Shepard staring thoughtfully at the house.

"Right," He says suddenly, "If that's all then I'll take my leave. I’m sure you’re tired after your long flight. Before I forget though-" He reaches in his pocket and takes out a ring of keys. He touches over a couple before lifting one. "This is the key to the front door. The other keys belong to the house as well, but you'll have to figure them out." 

I thank him as he hands me the key. I close my hand over the cool metal; for the first time, this all feels real.

"If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask. Seriously. Come over any time," He says, the bright smile back on his face. It's a little infectious. He nods towards his house. "In fact, why don't you join us for dinner tomorrow? I'm sure Penny would love to meet a new neighbor.

"Oh, that's so nice of you. Thank you." He smiles, wishes me a good night, and then he jogs back to his house.

I’m alone. 

There haven’t been a lot of times in my life where I’ve been alone. There was always staff at the group homes. Public transit was always overly crowded. Foster parents didn't often leave me alone in their houses. Everywhere I went, I found others there. Maybe they weren’t interested in me, but they were always there.

But now I’m truly alone. The house towers towards me, looking like it knows I’m here for it. It makes me realize how small you feel when you’re the only one around. There isn’t enough in me to fill up a house that size.

I take a deep breath and run my thumb over the cool metal of the key in my hand. Then, before I can convince myself to do otherwise, I walk up the steps.

The porch groans when I step onto it. It’s painted black, but some of the paint chips away to reveal the old wood underneath. There are a couple of holes on the porch that open to darkness underneath. I have to be mindful of not stepping into any. I wouldn’t want to have to call Shepard over to help me out of my own porch.

All the windows surrounding the door are boarded up, so I can’t see inside. There are windows on the door itself but I’m too short to see through them. There’s nothing to do but go in. 

It’s a double door. Arched. Mahogany, I think. I’ve heard that word before. There are windows forming a half circle on each door and a metal knocker missing the knocking part. The “P” carved into the front looks fresh. I have to stop myself from jabbing my finger into the wound. 

Instead, I insert the key into the lock and turn it. The lock clicks easily and I turn the handle. My heart is beating fast. I can hear it.

I open the door.

The first thing I notice when I step inside is the darkness. It's partially because the windows are boarded up, but it's mostly because everything in the room is dark. The light dripping inside from the door reveals that the walls are made of wood stained almost black and the floor is a red and gold patterned tile. The ceiling is high. If I look up I can see the second floor, which overlooks the main floor with a balcony made of dark iron. A huge chandelier hangs from so high above that I can’t see where it begins. 

The main entrance opens to a huge open space bordered with a few doors. A grand staircase sits on one side and a fireplace opposes it. Just to the left of the front door is another arched entrance to a circular room with empty bookshelves covering the walls- clearly the bottom of the rounded tower. 

I take a step inside and lock the door behind me. There's a painting of a bat done with spray paint on the inside of the door. I place my hand against the door, looking over it slowly and wondering how long it's been there. I'm also wondering why I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, and why the wood feels 20 degrees colder than the room I stepped into. 

I turn around and step further into the house, eyes wide as I try to take in all my surroundings. It smells dusty and stale overall, but there's also a faint herbal scent in the air. It tickles my nose, but I don't mind it. The air is dry.

It feels like I have to move slowly. Every detail in the house needs my full attention. If I miss something then the house would be sorely offended. 

The door next to the staircase leads to a combined kitchen and dining room space, both featuring black and white tiles and brown walls covered in cupboards. All the glass doors of the cupboards in the dining room have been smashed, so there's glass all over the floor. It crunches under my feet as I step past to see the kitchen. There are countertops in there, but everything else seems to be missing. I feel an aching in my chest at that. It just seems sad that somebody would take all the stuff from this house. It's not like I'd use all of it though, so I'm not sure why I'm sad. 

I leave the kitchen to look around the main entrance again.

As Shepard said, the house has clearly been empty for years, but he didn’t mention it’s also been vandalized for years. There’s not a single piece of furniture on the first floor except for a piano with all the keys ripped out of it. Even the bench is missing. For a moment I think about replacing the piano, before remembering that I've never even touched one. I shake my head of the thought. It's not like I can afford such an expensive hobby. 

The graffiti littering the place is a little rough too, but part of me kind of enjoys it. I'm sure I'll have to paint over it, especially since half of the walls are covered in dicks, but I sort of like the idea that a lot of different people have been in the house and left art to show it. Granted, I don't want them in here while I'm sleeping or anything, but maybe I could keep a room open for graffiti artists to come in and practice. That way there would be a lot of people in and out of the house, instead of me just living here alone. Then again, maybe giving someone a place to do graffiti sort of defeats the purpose of graffiti. Maybe I should just sell the house. I sigh and shake out my shoulders, feeling a chill go down my spine.

Anyway, I don't mind the graffiti that much, I decide. What I do mind is the paintings and photos in the house. There’s rectangular discoloration on some parts of the walls, meaning that some of the artwork has been taken. But the vandals must’ve left the worst ones. There are all sorts of paintings covering the walls underneath the graffiti, most of it dark and Gothic looking, all of it looking horrendously old. There are paintings of rotting fruit and naked people with wings and Greek statues. Why would you want a picture of a statue instead of a statue itself? The guy must have been able to afford the real thing. 

The worst painting is hung above the fireplace. I stare up at it with unabashed awe, mostly because it's the only painting in the room that hasn't been defaced at all. And it's the worst one of them all. The painting is photo-realistic and depicts a man that makes my skin crawl.

He's a young man, probably just a few years older than me, dressed in a dark pinstripe suit. He has shoulder-length black hair and a widow's peak that reminds me of those old vampire movies they used to make us watch in English when the teacher didn’t want to teach. His skin is a warm brown and his nose is hooked and crooked and starts way too high up on his head. The downward tilt to his striking gray eyes accentuates the pout on his lips, begging the question: who pouts for a painting? If you're going to spend all that money having someone paint you, shouldn't you think about smiling? A pout seems like a strong choice.

He doesn’t look anything like me. You’d assume that the painting over the mantle would be of the person who owned the house, but Shepard said nobody’s ‘owned’ this house since my great Uncle did. It doesn’t look like this could be my uncle. He looks like the person you’d come up with if someone asked you to describe the opposite of me. I wonder if features in a family could be so different after only a few generations. 

The worst part of the painting isn't the man himself, he's definitely not ugly, but the way they painted his eyes. There’s too much detail in his expression. It’s excessive. His lashes clump together wetly and the whites of his eyes are tinted red. His lower lids are swollen. It looks as if he'd just been crying, but the painter had waited until his tears had dried and slapped him onto a canvas.

Despite the sadness, his grey gaze stares straight forward in a way that feels unnatural and fierce. He looks like he’s challenging anyone who walks by to look him in the eye and address his sorrow. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t accept the challenge; mentally urging him to just give in and blink as I stare back at him. It must have been a long time since he’s blinked.

He doesn't. But when I walk away to head up the stairs I feel his eyes on my back. 

Jetlag is no fucking joke.

At the top of the grand staircase is a landing featuring a small wooden table with its legs broken out from underneath it. I'm surprised the table is still here; I make a mental note to repair it later. There's a dirty circular rug underneath it that was probably very nice at one point but now is so covered in dust and stains that the looping pattern is ruined. The back wall is just a giant unbroken window, which is an exciting discovery I make after pushing back the dusty velvet curtains. 

The sun is starting to set, but the sheer size of the window makes a significant amount of light pour into the house. I turn around to see what the main floor looks like in bright light; I'm almost disappointed to find that it’s still dirty. Still, it looks better washed in light. It almost seems like the curtains were drawn so the sun wouldn’t hit the painting since it’s placed right where the beams flow into the room. Maybe that’ll get you to close your eyes, I think. Or at least squint.

He doesn’t. 

There will be more time, I decide, to explore tomorrow. Even though it’s barely sunset I’m thoroughly exhausted. There probably isn’t anything wrong with going to bed before the sun sets; it’s not like anyone’s keeping tabs on me.

I start to look into rooms to decide which one I want to sleep in for the night, which takes longer than I expect it to. The choice feels sort of permanent, weirdly. It’s not like I’m going to want to switch rooms every night, so maybe this first choice _is_ important. Maybe I should rent the extra ones out. Or maybe I should let homeless people sleep here. I guess it won't matter for too long if I decide to sell the house.

The bedrooms are all side-by-side and face outwards towards the street or the woods behind the house. They're all connected by an inner hall that doubles as a balcony over the first floor, so it's easy to spend some time roaming from room to room. I'm tired, but I keep walking until I've at least glanced into all the rooms.

Finally, I reach the corner of the house where the wall curves outward. It almost looks like the house grew some sort of structural boil, but there's a wooden door right in the middle of the curve. 

"Right," I mumble to myself, grabbing the door handle. It's locked, so I take out the keyring and start trying different keys. "The tower. Because this is a fucking castle." 

My voice echoes back to me. 

It takes a few tries for me to find the key, so the zip of excitement that goes through my spine when the lock finally clicks open is warranted. I open the door just to find a spiral staircase made of black iron that matches that of the balcony behind me. The stairs look old, but when I step up onto one it doesn't do anything more than whine, so I slowly make my way up. There's not much space in the room, two people couldn't even walk up the stairs side-by-side, so I hike my duffle bag onto my bag and make my way up.

There aren’t any windows in the stairwell, making it so dark that I can’t tell how far up I’m going. The burn in my thighs could either mean that I’ve been going up for a while or that I haven’t been doing enough leg-work. Either way, I can’t see how far up the stairs go, so I feel out each step with my foot before putting my weight down. That makes the process go longer. 

I don’t have too long to wonder where the stairs go. Even less time to note that I wouldn’t be able to tell if someone was coming up the stairs after me. The thought barely manifests into my head before I walk face-first into a wall.

"Fuck," I mumble, gripping the railing so the recoil doesn't throw me down the stairs. I huff a little, a manic little laugh leaving my lips as I reach my hand out against the wall and realize that it’s a door. I expect the door to be locked, so I'm even further surprised when it swings open as soon as I nudge the handle. 

It's so bright when I open the door that for a moment I think I've just found my way onto the roof. I have to squint into the light to realize that the door I opened led to a circular bedroom with more windows than walls. Once my eyes adjust I can see that the windows are covered in ivy from the outside, so the light seeping in between the leaves creates a kaleidoscope pattern on the floor. 

A smile creeps onto my face. I close the door behind me.

It’s smaller than all the other bedrooms, but the fact that it’s so deep into the house means that the vandals didn’t make it this far; it's almost fully undisturbed aside from a funny little scene of a sleeping dragon painted onto the inside of the door. The painting looks old, but it doesn’t look like it fits the theme of the rest of the house, so maybe it was one of the first works of graffiti. Regardless, I like it.

The furniture is actually still furniture too. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle with a dark blue comforter and all the pillows still intact, save for one that fell on the floor. The walls are painted a soft cream and the ceiling rises into a high point which must be the tip of the tower. One side of the room features a window seat, while the other seats another fireplace. The best part of the room is that there are no paintings aside from the dragon.

Aside from all the dust (and some dead bugs by the window), it’s clean. But, I do have some sense, so I don’t jump directly into the bed. Instead, I open a window, kick a little bit at the dust on the carpet, and place my duffle bag on the floor. I lay a sweatshirt down on the carpet to soften the floor while using my bag as a pillow.

I’ll probably wake up sneezing and sore, but it’s probably better than catching whatever’s living in the bed (even if it looks like the most comfortable thing on earth). Tomorrow, I’ll put effort into making an actual place to sleep, but today the floor will work. At least I have a roof over my head. 

I'm out before the dust even starts to bother my nose.

-

_There is an aching within me. That’s all I’ve known for the longest time. My foundation is composed of rubber bands stretched too tight over an endless pit; brick upon brick balancing on a structure that is not strong enough for them, yet is unwilling to break. My beams moan to me, begging that one day the bands will snap and they will become rubble. I can make no promises._

_Whether I crumble below or explode doesn’t matter to me, so long as the aching stops. I’ve long given up on the idea that the bands will loosen or that my foundation will be replaced with concrete, so instead, I wait for the bands to snap. Nothing is as painful as dwelling on the fall. Not even the fall itself. I welcome the fall. Anything is better than being between._

_What am I aching for? What is it that binds me?_

_I don’t have an answer. Not anymore. It’s me who won’t let me fall, I know that, but why? Why, when it hurts so bad to wait?_

_All I do know is that when he took his first step inside a single band snapped._

_And I am not ready to fall._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: scattered mentions of blood
> 
> hi!! sorry this update was late, but, y'know. it happens
> 
> Anyhoo, I just want to mention that though reading and writing fic is certainly a valid and important activity (under no circumstances am I shaming people for taking time to read fic), we're also facing some critical times in the US in regards to the wellbeing of black individuals. If you have time to read, I also recommend you take some time to donate to organizations benefiting BLM or [stream to donate ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM) to a number of well-respected organizations that benefit black Americans and protestors if you haven't done so already. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy the spooky happenings in this chapter :)

_Hours pass._

_I can feel them now._

_The sun sets, then it rises. I don’t remember the last time I noticed the sun. But when he walked inside I knew it was shining._

_When he first goes to sleep the sun is still there. Now the sun is back. He’s sleeping on the floor, my floor, me. He’s curled into a ball and twitching. I can feel him twitch. He’s warm._

_By the time he wakes it feels like I’m watching him do it from above._

_Am I watching?_

_I’m not sure how wood and brick can watch. Perhaps I just feel him._

_He rises slowly. There’s sun on his face. It bothers him. He scrunches up his face until his freckles seem to blend together. I know that feeling. I know he jutted that freckled chin out and ripped back curtains to try and wake me from painted slumber. The burning still blurs my sight of him. I hope he burns too._

_He gives one final twitch that spreads into a long stretch with legs spread out, and arms reaching forward. I wonder how good it feels to stretch like that. To knock your bones back into place._

_If I focus I can look at him from different angles. Right now I watch him from the doorway._

_I like this room. I like that he chose this room. It makes me feel warm._

_Staying focused on him is important. It seems to bother him if I try and look at other things. When my focus wandered around the house he’d rise with blurry eyes and wobbly knees and investigate with half recognition. I’m not sure what I did that brought his attention, but after a while, I decided it was best to just stay in the room with him. It’s not like I haven’t seen the dusty corridors thousands of times before._

_I can tell he’s awake, but he doesn’t open his eyes. I wish he’d open his eyes. There’s something I need to see in them. I’m not sure what it is. But I’m waiting. I’m always waiting._

_He rolls on his back and makes a show of pointing his toes. He slept with his shoes on. Bastard. I’d never confine my feet to such a prison overnight if I had them._

_His loud yawn startles me. All the sounds he makes seem melodramatic. I’d like to focus less on him; he sort of irritates me when he’s awake. I can feel the whole house, every shard of glass and inch of paint. But still, he’s the only thing it feels right to look at. It helps the time go by faster while I wait, at least. Wait for whatever it is I’m waiting for._

_Besides, being with him makes me feel alive._

The sun is on my face. I thought the ivy would make curtains unnecessary, but I can feel my eyes melting behind my lids. I curl in tighter to myself to try and block it from my face. It’s no use; I can feel it burning the back of my neck. 

It must be late in the day since it’s so bright in the room, but I feel like I didn’t sleep for more than an hour last night. Every time I settled into a state of drowsiness I’d hear something and bolt up. I made so many trips down the stairs to check for break-ins that I worried they’d give beneath my weight. 

I never found anyone in the house. It was all a big waste of time and energy. After a couple of times, I wished that I’d find somebody downstairs; at least then I could do something about it. 

I never felt this uneasy in the group home. Granted, the kids rotated around frequently enough that sometimes I couldn’t keep track of who made what sound, but every bump in the night belonged to somebody.

But there’s nobody here. There’s nobody to be making so much noise. 

Logically, I know that the sounds were just because it’s an old house. I’ve been stepping on wood and tile that hasn’t seen a sole in decades. The house needed time to adjust to my weight.

The other thing that kept me up was the dreams. When I wasn’t analyzing every creak and blow of the wind, I was having the weirdest fucking dreams. They ranged from awkward encounters (of the naked sort) with some girls from the group home to one where the dragon painted on the back of the door held me as a hostage in the tower. A storm thrashed around the building while the dragon roared at me. It never made the move to attack, but the tower swayed dangerously and it blocked the door. Its teeth were the size of knives.

I even had a dream where I was stuck inside the painting above the mantle. I watched the house from inside the frame while the crying man gestured wildly at me. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but the look on his face made my bones ache when I jerked awake.

Or, maybe they ache because I slept on the hard floor.

I turn onto my back, resigning to being awake. The cool floor against my back feels good after being curled up for so long, so I stretch out my arms and legs leisurely. 

The ache in my muscles is only comparable with the ache in my stomach. The turkey sandwich I had on the plane didn’t do much to keep me filled a day later. 

I roll over on my front. Shepard invited me over for dinner tonight, but he never gave me a time. I also don’t have a clock, so it wouldn’t matter if he did. Still, I imagine it’s probably a few hours away. Maybe I should head over when the sun goes down. 

There’s not much for me to do with myself until then, save for just exploring the house. My body aches though, so I don’t want to walk around. I’d like to take a hot shower and lay in bed. None of those options are available to me right now. Missing my bunk and paper-thin sheets was never something I expected from this trip. 

I fold my arms under my head. For a moment I think about going back to sleep. If I sleep then I won’t have to fill up the time between now and dinner. I also won’t have to think about all the things that have gone wrong in the past 24 hours. 

I shouldn’t be so cynical. There are things to be grateful for: a roof over my head, the promise of a free meal, friendly neighbors. Boredom and exhaustion shouldn’t keep me from enjoying the fact that I actually have a home- even if it is a really hard place to live. 

The choice between being grateful or upset is a difficult one. I’m not sure which one is the correct response to this situation. My face aches from furrowing my eyebrows together in thought. I also really need to pee.

I turn on my other side, this time facing the bed. I always kept things under my bed at the home, mostly because that was the best place to hide things from other kids (and they never looked down there during room check, so it was a good place to keep magazines I didn’t want people to see). Whoever slept here clearly didn’t have as much to hide. The space is dark and full of cobwebs. I scrunch up my nose at the dust I slept next to all night; I’m no clean freak, but it’s still pretty gross. There are probably a ton of spiders living down there. 

I go to turn away from the space since I don’t want to think about all the spiders potentially crawling all over me throughout the night, but something catches my eye before I do. 

It’s a book, so old that the cover is completely covered in dust, laying under the bed.

I reach for it without thinking, immediately forgetting about the hanging webs. They break off easily, wrapping around my hand like pale white fingers trying to keep me back. I huff and get up on my knees to get closer to the bed. It takes a few moments of reaching before I brush my fingertips against the dusty cover. The book is barely within my reach; I dig my nails down into the soft leather, inching it closer to me in slow jerking motions before I’m able to grip it and pull it out. 

My hand is covered in dust and dirt, but the book is worse for wear. My fingerprints disturbed what looks like an inch-thick layer of grime. I set it down on the floor, blowing some of the dust off of the cover while I wipe my hand against my jeans. After sneezing on the book a few times I’m able to tell that it’s a journal sporting yellowed pages with a red leather binding. A clasp holds the pages shut, but it opens easily. 

A shiver runs through my spine as I sit down in front of the book. It’s possible that it belonged to my uncle. 

Something about that makes me hesitate; I’m not sure what I’m about to learn about myself if I open it.

But I have to open the book. 

The pages are covered in black, looping text- the kind of cursive you only see in old documents and letters. Almost all of the pages are written in- whoever owned the book was clearly dedicated to writing in it. I take a deep breath and flip to one of the pages in the back. 

**_The fever seems to be subsiding, so I’m remaining hopeful. I will provide an update on his findings in my next entry._ **

**_January 09, 1942_ **

**_I must apologize for the long period between diary entries. I intended to write sooner, but my fever returned with a bloodlust. I was all but confined to my bed for nearly a fortnight, per my physician’s orders, and I honestly did not feel inclined to report back on that matter._ **

**_What makes matters worse is this house. Had I been sick before moving in, or had I had time to redecorate before falling ill, I truly believe I would be faring better. The darkness and drabness are making my fever stagnant. I’ve only completed the decor of the tower to my liking. I believe, if nothing else, my spirits would be lifted if I could spend my time in the warm embrace of being so close to the sun, but the travel up all those stairs is too great for my current state._ **

_THUMP_

I frown, looking up from the book. The sound came from far off. If I hadn’t stayed in the house all night I would’ve thought it was someone slamming a door. 

“It’s an old house,” I mumble to myself. My voice is hoarse. I look back down at the book. 

**_I have been staying in a guest bedroom that looks as if it were decorated in the 1700s. I harbor the greatest amount of disgust humanly possible to my forefather’s sense of interior design. Furthermore, I worry that the dust is worsening me. I suppose that is the price you run when moving into a home inherited from your grandparents._ **

**_In all honesty, the thing that truly makes this experience terrible is being alone in this (dreadful) house. A neighbor boy has been recruited to deliver necessities from the market to me during my sickness, but he is not interested in spending time with someone so sickly as myself. It is just as well, as I am not interested in conversation with him either._ **

**_Still, the loneliness does get to me. I haven’t had a meaningful conversation since-_ **

I’m midway through a sentence when suddenly the door flies open with such force that the dragon painting kisses the wall. The handle bounces against the wall and it swings shut again, leaving the room in deadly silence. 

I blink. 

The joints in my hips crack as I rise to my feet. I feel tugging at the back of my neck before I even realize I’m pulling at my necklace. 

It doesn’t make sense that someone came into the house; especially not in the middle of the day. It also doesn’t make sense that they’d throw the door open like that. I guess everyone in the neighborhood still thinks this house is empty. 

I have the journal wielded in one hand and my necklace in the other, though neither would help if I had to fight someone. I stand still for a long while, staring at the door and waiting for it to open again. It doesn’t move. Everything stays quiet.

Finally, I’m able to peel myself from the spot I’m standing in. I toss the journal onto the bed behind me and ignore the cloud of dust that rises from their collision before stepping towards the door. Everything feels cold when I grab the handle. I also kinda feel like I could shit my pants. 

It opens easily. Nobody’s outside.

I squint into the darkness with bated breath, looking for movement on the spiral staircase, but there’s nothing there either. Just freezing darkness. 

I stood and waited for a while before opening the door, but certainly not long enough for someone to walk all the way back down the stairs of the tower. Even if I can’t see, I’d hear feet on the iron steps below. 

My breath leaves me all at once; I didn’t know I had tensed my muscles so tightly until they relax. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, one hand steadying me on the doorframe as I relish in taking deep gulping breaths of the cool air around me. Clearly, faulty hinges are another issue I’m going to have to deal with while living here. I’ve never heard of doors flying open due to disuse, but that must be the case. It’s the only logical explanation. 

I turn back around, eyes slow to adjust to the contrast of light between the tower and the staircase. Somehow, I’m going to need to get some light into that tower. Maybe one of those little nightlights shaped like cartoon characters. 

The journal sits on the floor, even though I could’ve sworn I tossed it on the bed. I shrug, crossing the room to it. The cover is oddly cold when I bend down and pick it up.

Faulty hinges may explain why the door swung open, but they certainly don’t explain the loudest crash I’ve heard in my life. I throw myself on the ground with a shriek, the book tumbling from my hand as I immediately cover the back of my head. 

It sounded like every single window in the house was smashed in at once. I’m sure train crashes are quieter than the scene in my home. 

The sound doesn’t last long. In fact, as soon as it starts it’s over. Then I’m left silent and shaking on the ground. 

I rise to my feet quicker this time, and immediately make my way down the stairs. On the way up, the darkness seemed to last forever, but I’m back on the second story before I even know it. The cool air that surrounded me before is gone, and instead, I’m filled with red-hot energy. I’m not sure what I’m angry about, or even what I’m going to do once I find the culprit. My stomach is twisted in knots and my nails dig into my palms. I don’t need to plan to be able to run down the stairs.

I round the corner of the balcony to the grand staircase, my run slowing to a jog down the stairs. The house is so quiet now, which is such a contrast to the crash a moment ago. I can’t hear anything but my own heavy breathing and my feet against the wood. 

My feet begin slowing as I reach the bottom of the stairs. There’s a pinpricking on the back of my neck. I stop on the last step, jaw falling slack. 

The paintings line the walls, but they’re on the floor. All of them. Every single painting and photo faces the floor. I heard the crashing from above, but they aren’t strewn across the floor- it’s like they were placed there. Placed with enough force to shatter the frames. 

Pieces of glass cracks under my feet as I step onto the ground floor. Some of the photos had glass frames. Now the glass grinds into the dirty tile. 

I circle the room, breathing fast. There’s no explanation for this. An earthquake? A panicked thief? Nothing I can come up with explains both their intricate placement and the force required to break them. 

A lot of the graffiti was on top of the paintings, so the walls look strangely bare, albeit dirty. The only finished work of graffiti remaining is a giant scrawled “Piss Baby” with an arrow pointed at the painting over the mantle. The painting over the mantle…

I step up to it, meeting it’s a challenge once again. Only one painting remains on the wall, and he stares down at me with the same melancholic intensity as before.

The missing paintings make _his_ look more impressive. I’m sure he would’ve liked that. The gold frame surrounding him looks brighter. The painting itself looks bigger. It looks like it’s the only important thing in the world. 

We stare at each other for a moment, a deadly standstill between us. It’s strange that this is the only painting that remains. It’s strange that all the other paintings got hit with some sort of earthquake except for this one. It’s strange that he’s squinting slightly- an expression I’m sure I would’ve noticed before. 

I sigh, shaking my gaze from it and looking down. There’s not a definite plan in my head, but I decide that maybe I should start by picking up the paintings and photos. I gather them in my arms and start making piles of the bigger pieces of the shattered frames on the kitchen counter. It’s not like I’m using the kitchen for anything else, noted by the growl in my stomach.

The room looks weird when I finish picking up the big pieces. Half-finished spray paint sentences crowd the dirty wood. I kick at some shard of glass on the floor and look up at the big painting.

It's weird because that’s the only painting still hanging. Maybe the room would look better without any art on the walls.

I step forward, hands outstretched towards the painting. 

And then I’m face-down on the tile floor.

“Jesus, fuck!” I push myself up to my hands and knees. Looking back to see what I tripped on. There’s nothing there, but now there’s a little red puddle on the tile underneath me. “What the fuck?” 

I push myself up to my feet, hand flying up to my face. The dull throbbing in my skull is only noted once it becomes a burning pain at the touch of my fingers to my nose. 

I quickly tilt my head back, thinking it’s a nosebleed, and feel blood spilling back my nose. I curse at the uncomfortable rush, lifting my head back up. My eyes catch the tearful ones in the painting- I swear the corner of his lip is quirked up. 

There’s a bathroom connected to the kitchen- I remember seeing the door. I dash over, mindful of my feet, hoping to find a mirror.

One of the high schools I went to had a pool. The tile surrounding it was yellow and so worn you could stand in the footprints of long-dead kids. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, the gym teachers lined us up and blew whistles to send us one by one into the pool. Nobody asked if I knew how to swim. All the other kids had been swimming since middle school. I stood at the back of the line every day, watching my participation points diminish. 

On the last Thursday of the semester, the teacher got sick of seeing me slack. He grabbed my shoulder and brought me to the front of the line. I felt the spit on my face as he blew his whistle, which I didn’t like, so I jumped in the pool. 

I thought I’d be able to stand, but the water was deeper than it looked. Laughter fought the water for space in my ears. I’m not sure how cold water could make you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, but it did. When I woke up, wet and shaking, I begged them not to call an ambulance. I had just wanted to forget the whole thing happened. 

If I let my head tilt back even slightly I can feel the thick liquid start down my throat. It burns like chlorine. I grab the edge of the counter, leaning forward and coughing as I did in the nurse's office. Blood splatters against the yellowed marble.

The mirror in the bathroom is shattered, but there’s a large enough piece on the top that if I stand on my toes I can see myself. Specks of dirt and glass meld with my freckles. A red garden hose spews from my nose, and the top of it is arched slightly to the side. I’ve seen my nose enough times to know it looks wrong. 

“Oh, fuck,” I mumble. My voice sounds garbled. It’s like I have a cold. I pound my fist down on the crumbling countertop. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

I lift the edge of my shirt and start trying to wipe the blood from my nose, but it’s not long before the fabric is filled with blood and it starts to drip down my wrist. I curse again, lifting my shirt over my head and balling it up before placing it back at my nostrils. My free hand goes to turn on the faucet, but nothing spills from the rusted tap.

“Right, dumbass. There’s no fucking water. Why would this fucking hellhole have water?” I shove the faucet handle closed.

It hurts to touch it, so I just hold the shirt beneath my nose to catch the blood. The pain is throbbing, starting from my nose and spreading out under my eyes and up my forehead. I lean one hand against the countertop and tilt my head down, closing my eyes as I wait for the disorienting feeling to go away.

The pain doesn’t ease up, and I have to breathe through my mouth still, but after a few minutes of holding still, it feels less like I’m going to pass out. I straighten up again and look in the mirror, moving the shirt away from my face.

There’s blood all over the lower half of my face, but the fresh blood coming from my nose has slowed to a trickle instead of a busted pipe. My nose is swollen too- joining my cheeks together and making me look like some sort of sweaty marshmallow. I’m not sure if it’s the glass of the mirror or me, but my face seems yellowed.

That’s when I notice the grey face behind me.

I spin around, the hand holding my shirt lifting in the air. 

And there’s nobody there. 

I lower my shaking hand, (what was I gonna do, pelt my bloody shirt at the intruder?) frowning as I turn back to look in the mirror again. Nobody’s there either.

There’s no way someone could’ve peeked into the bathroom and left that quickly. Especially since he was right behind me. He was taller than me. His chin almost touched my ear. 

Regardless, I leave the bathroom, stepping carefully around the glass on the floor to try and make less noise. I pick up a piece of a frame from the counter and hold it up, wielding it like a sword as I walk into the center of the living room. I pause, turning my head side to side as I try to listen for footsteps. After a few moments of silence, I let the stake all to my side.

“Hello? Is …. is someone here?” I call out, spinning in a slow circle. My voice still sounds warbled. “I won’t… be mad or anything. Just, tell me if you’re here. I... can’t take anymore.”

My survey stops, once again, with me facing the painting. I must’ve imagined the laughter in his expression earlier; now he has a downward tilt to his mouth. His eyes regard me with too much intensity.

I stare at him, frowning. I must’ve imagined it. Maybe the angle of the bathroom made his face show up in the mirror. But there’s a wall between the two. There’s no way…

A knock on the door almost makes me jump out of my skin. I give one more look at the painting before walking to open the door. It’s Shepard.

“Hey! Glad to see you survived the night in the Pi- HOLY SHIT.”

“Wh… huh?” His eyes are bulging out. I’m worried his glasses will fall off.

“Jesus Christ, dude. What happened? There’s blood all over your face! Shit, is your nose broken? Did someone punch you?”

I frown up at him through his rambling, my eyebrows furrowing. The movement in my face sends a sharp pain through my head. Oh, right.

“No, the…” I glance back at the painting. There’s a puddle of my blood at the foot of the fireplace. “I just tripped. The tile… hard.”

Shepard frowns at me for a minute, strangely quiet. Then he lifts his keys.

“I can take you to the hospital. ”

I take a step back. I’ve been through a lot of shit today, but for some reason, this makes my heart beast faster than anything else. 

“No.”

He furrows his brows.

“It’s… free here, you know. Free healthcare.” 

I open my mouth, then close it again. It’s hard to keep from screwing up my face. I’m also struggling to meet Shepard’s concerned gaze. 

“No, I… I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

He puts his key back in his pocket.

“Well, okay.” He says. I’m grateful that he doesn’t try to argue with me. I’m not sure why. “Grab some clothes. We’ll clean you up at home.”

Meeting Penny is awkward. I sorta imagined getting dressed up to meet my… lawyer’s wife. I thought I’d look grown-up, sitting in their dining room as a fellow home-owner. Instead, Shepard ushers me inside like he doesn’t want anyone to see me, and Penny, a short woman with curly brown hair, swoops in with eyes wide and a sharp look on her face.

“He needs to go to the hospital,” She says, talking to Shepard instead of me. I’m sort of glad she does; my head is spinning. 

“He doesn’t want to,” He responds simply. His hand is on my shoulder. She frowns at her husband, then at me, and continues to argue. It’s sort of hard to follow. I stand between them and stare dumbly at the floor. My head is still pounding. Their floor is a nice stain of wood. I hope I’m not bleeding on it. 

Shepard wins, I think. Or, at least, I’m led to go shower. 

For the first few seconds, the water is brown as it leaves me. The blood on my face washes away easily; I can’t help but watch as it spirals down the drain.

Penny and Shepard’s bathroom is all white tiles and bright lights, but somehow I’m drawn back to the house. The dark wood walls. The stained rugs. The earth surrounding the place. It’s all brown. All dried blood. 

I run a hand through my hair. Turning away from the water. I don’t want to spend too much time in the shower since I’m just supposed to be washing off my face, but nobody said I couldn’t wash my hair. The water is hot, and the pressure is nice too. Something in my chest feels a little less stuffed up when I breathe in the steam. 

Shepard laid out a towel for when I got out, so I make quick work of drying off and changing into new clothes. Before I leave the bathroom I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My nose is still crooked. I’m not sure if I expected it to have gone back to its normal position after the blood got washed off, but it didn’t. There’s also a cut across the bridge of it, and a few scratches down my cheek. Nothing’s bleeding anymore, but a purple bruise extends from the corner of one eye to the other. I look like I got punched in the face. I’ve seen other guys get punched before. That means that in a couple of days my nose will be green. 

I don’t like looking at my nose. I make a note to myself that, when I start decorating the house, to keep as few mirrors as possible. 

Their bathroom is upstairs, so I pile my old clothes up in my arms and make a slow descent. The shower helped my dizziness, but I still grasp onto the railing with one hand to make sure I don’t tumble down. At any normal time, I’d probably look around at their decorations, but instead, I keep my eyes on my own moving feet.

They’re huddled together with their backs turned to me when I make my way back downstairs. They don’t notice when I walk into the room. I chew on my lower lip and hover around a corner, not wanting to interrupt them. 

“He shouldn’t be staying there alone. Did you _see_ his nose?”

“I agree, Penny, but it’s not like we know him. We can’t _make_ him go to the hospital. We certainly can’t make him stay with us if he doesn’t want to.”

“He’s just a _kid_ , Shep! That house is too big for any one person, let alone someone as young as him. Doesn’t he have a family?”

I see Shepard raise his shoulders in a shrug. 

“It’s one thing to live alone at 18. But to live in the _Pitch_ house? That’s-“

“Why do you keep calling my house the Pitch house?” I hear my voice before I consciously decide to respond. It’s one thing to take advantage of their kindness, but now I’m being rude on top of it. Penny and Shepard turn around and find me blushing. Penny’s inquisitive eyes quickly survey my face, looking like she’s trying to gather a resume on me. Meanwhile, Shepard’s eyes focus on a point on the carpet. 

“Well…” He starts.

“Are you hungry?” Penny interrupts, a hand placed securely on Shepard’s shoulder. When I look at her again her eyes are bright, eyebrow cocked but expression kind. Shepard still doesn’t look up. “Do you want to eat?”

I nod. Eating is more important than mystery solving. 

Penny and Shepard’s living room is attached to their dining room. There’s already food on the table: a pile of grilled vegetables and plates of side dishes. They must’ve laid out plates while I was in the shower. 

I take a seat in a stiff wooden chair that matches the color of the table. Everything in their house looks like it was picked carefully. I wonder if Penny is an interior designer; if I could get her to help me decorate the house. 

Penny asks me what I want to drink and gives Shepard a pointed look before walking into the kitchen. He stands there, just sort of smiling at me until Penny comes back out and leads him to the kitchen by the elbow. 

I take a deep breath, rubbing my thumbs against my temples. 

Them leaving gives me an opportunity to try and figure out how to eat. I _know_ how to eat, but I need to focus on how to be polite. I’ve stayed in a couple of foster homes that prided themselves on teaching me manners, but that was all a long time ago. British people are supposed to be polite, I think. I don’t want to offend them by eating like an animal- even if I feel like I could polish the table off before they even come back from the kitchen.

Instead, I glance around, trying to remember what's expected of me. It’s hard to remember anything when my skull feels full of cotton. Sharp, burning cotton. 

I vaguely remember a home economics class talking about using different sized forks for different courses, but I never asked what courses were. Like, am I supposed to switch forks between meat and vegetables?

I guess it doesn’t really matter because it looks like they only gave me one fork. There’s nothing else I can remember from the class except for how to boil an egg. I don’t think I’m going to be let into their kitchen any time soon, though.

When Penny and Shepard come back in with drinks I’m holding my napkin in my hand, trying to decide what to do with it ( I know I’ve seen people tuck it in their shirts on tv, but that seems embarrassing). They both smile brightly at me like they’re surprised to see that I’m still here. Maybe I should’ve left while they were in the kitchen. At least I didn’t eat all the food. 

“Great! All set,” Shepard says, placing a cup of water in front of me before sitting down. He doesn’t even grab his napkin. Neither does Penny. I set mine back down on the table. “Tuck in.” 

My politeness is forgotten then. I pile food onto my plate. Neither Penny nor Shepard moves to stop me; they don’t even exchange glances when I start to eat.

I can feel myself ease into the seat as I eat. It must help my condition too, because, though it hurts a little to chew, I immediately start to feel a little more like normal. Conversation comes easily over food too. Before I know it, I’ve given them both a synopsis of my life before coming to England. I even tell them about the weird cab driver; it makes Shepard laugh, but Penny’s eyebrows move together. 

“Penny, this is delicious. Thank you,” I blurt, suddenly remembering my manners. The food _is_ good. I’ve just been too busy eating it to comment on it. 

“Oh, actually, Shepard cooked. I’m not much of a chef,” She admits with a smile.

“Ha!” Shepard exclaims, nudging his elbow at my arm as he gives us both a mischievous grin. There’s a piece of rice at the corner of his mouth that Penny moves to wipe off. “She can’t even make toast,” He teases, trying to dodge Penny’s hand. 

I feel my cheeks heat up.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you, Shepard,” I say quickly. He just winks. “So, what do you… do?” 

Penny snorts, dropping her napkin and picking her fork back up. Maybe that was rude. I’m not sure how to keep from being rude. Luckily, she doesn’t give pause. 

“I’m a lawyer as well. I work in criminal defense,” She says casually, holding up a piece of asparagus on her fork. “Do you have a job lined up?”

“I… I worked in a grocery store, before coming here. I’m hoping to find… something to do. I’m hoping to start looking for work tomorrow.” Penny nods in response, looking at me thoughtfully. 

“Well, if you have trouble finding something let us know. We have plenty of connections around town,” she smiles, and Shepard nods and turns to me.

“So, other than the nose, how was your first night at the Pi- I mean… Damn it.” A silence falls as Shepard immediately covers his mouth with his hand. Meanwhile, Penny shoots daggers at him with her eyes. Shepard sighs and I chew on the inside of my lip. 

“Um... Is there something I should know about the house?” I don’t know what ‘pitch’ means, aside from in baseball. Maybe baseball players are going to come and destroy the house. 

Penny frowns and reaches across the table to me, her fingertips brushing against my palm. I look down at it.

“No, nothing’s wrong with it. We’ve just lived here for a long time, and there are some silly things about the house that… well, that might scare you. You know, ghost stories and stuff.” She moves her hand away from me to flick Shepard’s shoulder. “We were _trying_ to keep quiet about it, but Shepard can’t keep his mouth shut. Superstitious, that one.”

I look to Shepard, he’s nodding and shrugging while sporting a half-grin.

“What would scare me?” I ask Penny. “Shepard already said he thinks it’s haunted. But what does ‘Pitch’ mean?”

"Everyone in the neighborhood just calls it the Pitch house,” Penny responds, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. Shepard rolls his eyes at her and leans towards me, eyes bright as he starts speaking rapidly.

“The legend is that a rich family lived here way back in the late 1800s, and ‘Pitch’ was their last name.”

“I’ve heard they were vampires,” Penny says with a smile. Shepard doesn’t think it’s funny.

“If they were vampires, there wouldn’t be a ghost, would there? Vampires don’t have souls,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her. In a second he’s back to his bubbling excitement. “ _Anyway_ , the 'ghost' in your house is the last Pitch in the family, who died under some mysterious circumstance. Some say he died just a few days before his wedding. Others say he died a few days after it.”

“Nobody’s ever mentioned anything about his wife,” Penny adds spiritlessly, tapping her fingers on Shepard’s forearm. Shepard shifts to take her hand in his. The two of them always seem to be touching each other. “That’s always been my question. How come the bloke got to haunt the house but his wife disappears?”

Shepard looks at her, smiling easily now, his enthusiasm on the topic lost without someone to return it.

“Probably because she never existed. Nobody's ever found a record of any actual 'Pitch' who lived here- believe me, I’ve looked. I guess that they came up with the name because of the P on the door. Oh, and that weird painting inside. Anyway, it’s just a fun story. I know neither of you believes in ghosts,” He gasps then, clapping me on the shoulder. “We should be renaming it the ‘Snow’ house, what with your family! Maybe the ‘P’ can be turned into an ‘S’”

I frown. The painting- my painting. That’s the source of all this? That _fucking_ painting?

“So, wait, the painting isn’t my uncle? It’s some Pitch guy?”

“No, well, I mean...there’s no way to know who it is. Nobody knows,” He pauses, “It’s a creepy painting though, don’t you think? That’s why everyone thinks he’s the ghost.” 

It feels weird to hear about the painting from someone else. I know people have been in the house. The graffiti says as much. I even know Shepard and Penny have been in the house. But the painting feels personal. It feels like something nobody’s seen before me. Like a challenge, one who intends to break my nose and shatter my hope before giving me its secrets, but a challenge just for me. 

More than anything else, I thought that the painting was a connection to my family. 

I go quiet then, chewing on my asparagus quietly as Shepard continues to tell me some story about his adventure in the house when he was younger. I vaguely register that Penny is watching me, but I don’t want to catch her gaze.

“Anyway, then the door slammed shut! And- What? Oh.”

“Is everything alright?” Penny asks, voice quiet. I look up from my plate to find them both frowning at me.

“Yeah, I guess I’m just a bit overwhelmed,” I respond, setting my fork down. I don’t feel like elaborating. I’m also not entirely sure what’s wrong. It’s not Shepard’s fault that he doesn’t know my family history. 

“Because your house is haunted?” Shepard asks.

“No,” Penny rolls her eyes, lightly hitting his arm with the back of her hand. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. I’m sure it’s just been a difficult couple days.” 

“Oh,” Shepard says dumbly, eventually nodding his head. “Yeah, she’s right. Does your nose hurt?”

“No, not… really.” I mumble, only half lying. I haven’t felt dizzy since we started eating, so that’s an improvement at least.

“Well, if you ever think you need to go to the hospital please let me know,” Shepard says, standing and starting to clear away our plates. I stand to try and help, but they make quick work of clearing the table before I can. 

I just stand there awkwardly, lifting my hand to my necklace as they disappear into the kitchen. I notice then that they have pictures on their walls: Penny and Shepard’s wedding, an old couple who look related to Shepard, Penny in front of a big building. For a moment, I think about being in one of those pictures.

I shake my head just as Shepard’s voice travels through the rooms. “Hey, if you wanted, you could stay the night with us, too. We have an extra room.”

“Oh,” I bite my lip, looking up as they come back into the room. I drop my hand from my neck. “No, that’s okay. Thank you, but I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

“Are you sure? It can’t be comfortable in the… Snow house.” He quips, nudging his elbow at me. I chuckle a little. 

“No, I’m fine. I… I’d like to sleep at home,” I respond. That answer surprises me. A real bed sounds much nicer than my dusty floor, but I don’t want to take advantage of them anymore. 

“Well, it looked like you were working on decorating when I got there,” He says, slowly starting to head towards the front door. As much talk as we did about the house, it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be going back there. Now, standing in their nice, clean foyer, I feel a pang of nervousness about going back to my mansion. Shepard winks at me and opens the front door. “I hope you’re having a good time with that. Maybe the house will look a little less haunted when you’re done with it.”

We step out onto their porch. The night is warm and cloudless. I’m struck, as I step down onto the grass, that I didn’t see or hear from the dog I’d seen yesterday. Maybe they have it locked up in a room. 

I turn around to say a final goodbye, but Penny reaches down and sets a hand on my shoulder. Shepard stands slightly behind her, a kind smile on his face.

“I know this is a strange time for you. If you don’t want to stay over, why don’t you come over for dinner again tomorrow? And… maybe you can cut the grass for us. Since you’re between jobs.”

I blink up at her for a moment, my mouth opening in a dumb little circle. Then a grin spreads on my face, so fast that it makes my nose throb. I lift a hand to it to make sure I’m not bleeding.

“That would be nice,” My voice cracks a little, and Penny smiles. “Thank you… for being so nice to me. Both of you. This has been… hard”

Penny shrugs.

When I open the front door a rat runs past me. There are bloody paw prints starting from in front of the mantle. I sigh and close the door behind me.

_He leaves me, and I feel dark. My insides are extinguished._

_I’ve been waiting for so long. For him. What are a few more hours?_

_Eternity._

_I almost forget him. It would be so easy to do so._

_But then, I feel the embers again before I understand them. Perhaps one of the teenagers has finally turned to arson._

_No._

_He returned._

_It sets me ablaze._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long!!!!!!! Also cw: there's some dissociating in this chapter. We vibing though.

There's a hand. Long, pale fingers with knuckles too far apart. Am I looking at it, or can I just see it?

Something cold presses against my forehead with a rush of a familiar scent. 

Then it's gone. 

But the hand is still there.

I think it's a man. I can't see past a light smattering of dark hair on his wrist. It wouldn’t matter if I could. 

The pads of his fingers are calloused. I know they're calloused because he drags his fingertips down my cheek, so gently that I wonder if I’m made of glass. His touch is gentle, airy even, but they scratch against my skin. I don’t mind the scratch by any means; it contrasts with the softness of his palm, which he presses against my jaw.

It's cool. I want to lean into it. I’d like to give him more. 

I should feel weird having a dude touch my face like this, but I don't. It doesn't feel weird. 

I can't tell. Maybe it is kinda weird.

When his hand leaves my cheek I miss it though. It felt like a blanket, scratchy, and encompassing like the ones we had at the home.

His fingertips drag down my neck. That's when I notice his nails are long. He doesn't scratch me, but I feel them against my skin. I wish he'd put his hand back against my face. Or pet my hair. The touch down my neck feels less kind. 

I’m so preoccupied with missing his hand that I don’t notice what it’s doing. I don't recognize what the tugging against the back of my neck is until it starts to hurt.

My necklace tugs my neck forwards. And it's burning. The metal is boiling hot. I get jerked forward in a frustrated grab at the necklace before I'm released. Nothing happens for a moment.

Then his hand wraps around my neck.

I’m standing beside the bed, chest heaving by the time I realize it was just a dream. There’s a deep thrumming under my skin, and I can feel the sweat drip down the back of my neck. There’s still a dent in the bed where I was laying a moment before. 

I shake my head, sitting back down on the blue linen and letting my back curve in a slouch as I rub my eyes. My mouth feels dry; I wonder if I screamed in my sleep.

It takes a few minutes of me staring at the floor before I feel the adrenaline dying down, leaving me tired instead. There’s a strange sensation at the back of my neck and my heart's still beating a mile a minute, but the longer I stay awake the less I can even remember what happened in my dream and more of what’s happening in real life- a nap before going to back to work.

I’m sort of glad that I woke up when I did. It feels safer to be awake. 

I shake my head again, trying to push the feelings away and wake myself up more while pushing myself off the bed again and reaching my arms out in a stretch. Sleeping on a bed for the past few nights has done wonders to improve the aches I had when I first got to Lancashire. Penny said that I probably should change out the mattress since it’s probably older than she is, but I didn’t see anything wrong with it. Plus, it’s really comfortable. I compromised by putting new sheets on, but it’ll be a while before I change out that bed. 

I rub my hand over the back of my neck, frowning a little bit as I look around my room. It’s mostly clean, aside from my unmade bed. The decor is a little gentler than I’d use, but it’s a fine place to live.

I’ve spent the past couple weeks working on making the house inhabitable. There’s nothing special inside. Everything’s still pretty filthy and my new furniture is limited to a mini-fridge in the kitchen that Shepard had in storage. It certainly isn’t the perfect home, but being able to survive in the house is an exciting development. Water runs from all of the faucets in the house, and I even got electricity going. 

Shepard had tried to convince me to get solar panels when he helped me contact the electricity company, but the price of installation almost made my eyes pop out of their sockets.

“It’ll save you money in the long run!” He had said, jabbing his finger at his computer screen as he looked up at me over his glasses. I crossed my arms over my chest, leaning towards the computer screen and shaking my head. 

“There’s no way I’ll live long enough to pay that off,” I laughed incredulously. Shepard rolled his eyes.

“Dude, I promise you. It’s a better option.”

“It’s my house, dude!” I argued. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Shepard is more than twice my age. “I definitely can’t afford that right now and, before you say it, _no_. I won’t borrow money from you.”

Shepard sighed dramatically, already clicking onto a different webpage. I was lucky Penny wasn’t there, or she’d have already bought the panels. “Whatever, bro. Continue killing the planet. Don’t come crying to me when Big Daddy Oil owns your soul ‘cause you’re too proud to borrow a couple of bucks.”

Penny and Shepard have proved to be great neighbors in the past few days. I’m over at their house all the time. We have dinner together every night, and Shepard usually sends me home with leftovers. I feel terrible taking so much food from them, but Shepard always insists that neither of them eats the leftovers, since they like to eat out for lunch a lot of the time. The food will go to waste if I don’t take it, so I usually give in.

They’ve needed a lot of work done around their house, which is really helping me stay somewhat on my feet. Usually, my days consist of getting stuff done in my house before heading over to theirs once they get off of work. Then, either Penny or Shepard will give me an assignment. 

I cut the grass twice a week at theirs, even though I only cut mine once every two weeks (they must like it really short), and when I’m not doing that they usually give me something else to work on. Sometimes they make me garden or organize stuff inside, but once Shepard made me build and paint a birdhouse. When he has me do stuff like that I wonder if they’re just looking for an excuse to pay me, but he promised that he’d really been meaning to get around to building a birdhouse. 

The work at their house is just temporary. I keep insisting that I need to get a real job, but every time I mention filling out an application Shepard reminds me of something they need to be done. Working for them is the least I can do for all their kindness

I’m also in the process of meticulously cleaning the mansion. The dust and dirt don’t bother me much, especially now that I have running water, but Penny said she’d send me back to America if I didn’t start making my own house more livable. I’m not sure how she planned on doing that, but Penny isn’t someone I want to upset. 

She also offered the guest room to me. They keep offering me the guest room as if I don’t have my own house just across the street.

It’s all hard work. It’s especially hard since I spend so much time across the street, doing the same kind of household upkeep. I’m not gung-ho to polish chandeliers in my gross, posh mansion when Penny and Shep have me doing the same thing in their nice, air-conditioned home (I keep waking up sweaty). 

Also, I keep finding dead animals around my house. Rats. It’s never fun. Some of them are ancient. It’s probably a good idea to clean those out.

I have to be pretty organized with it to keep me honest, so I’ve been going from room to room to get stuff done. I started in the tower, which took a few days to clean since it’s the only room with actual furniture. But, this week I’ve started going through the other bedrooms to sweep up the dust and, occasionally, rat bones. 

Today, before I go over to help Penny move some boxes from their attic, I was going to start washing the filthy walls in the downstairs bedrooms.

The dream is all but forgotten once I finish making my bed- a habit that’s followed me here from the home. That is, I forget it until I notice how hot my necklace feels against my neck.

For a moment I think I’m just hot. It gets pretty warm up here on sunny days, but there’s rain pattering in through the open window. 

No, it’s not me who’s hot. It’s the necklace.

It’s strangely warm, confirmed when I wrap my fingers around the cross. I furrow my brows. It feels like it’s getting hotter, like a shower tap being turned. 

I reach behind my neck and unclasp it. It’s hard to do, too hard. I never take it off, but it shouldn’t be this hard. It’s getting hotter. 

I can’t get it off. 

My fingers are too thick to turn the little knob, plus the metal burns my fingers.

It’s hot. 

It’s so hot against my skin. I can't hold it in my hands. I can’t do anything to lift it off my skin.

The necklace is going to melt right through my skin and sear through my heart. The house is going to burn down. 

I smell hair burning. 

It takes just a second for thick tears to start spilling down my cheeks. I grab the necklace in both hands, holding it steady, and let a loud groan fill the room as I give one final fumble at the clasp before it suddenly falls open.

I’m panting as I throw the necklace onto the ground. It skids across the room and slams against the wall.

Everything is quiet. My skin is throbbing.

Then the necklace moves.

It looks like someone’s tugging a string attached to it, jerking once before starting to slide across the floor. It slowly picks up speed, going straight for the bed like it’s trying to lose itself underneath.

I pounce without thinking, practically diving across the room in a scramble to get to the necklace. My hand closes on the cross just before it slides under the bed, all thoughts of its temperature forgotten.

The necklace gives one tug against my hands before going limp again. I stare down at my hand in shock, held just inches before the darkness under the bed. 

The metal is freezing.

-

_I need the necklace off his neck._

_I need them separated. Far apart, so I can get to him. Protect him. Feel him._

_It looked like it hurt him._

_He hopped around like a monkey with cymbals._

_We saw a monkey once. It was in a traveling circus- from Asia, his handler said. It stared at me with familiar eyes through the bars of its cage. Children threw peanuts at the dilapidated enclosure. I wanted to free him. I didn’t know how yet._

_I recall fingers, digging into my shoulder and pulling me away from its cage._

_Fingers of my own… clasping on necklaces of my own. Clothing. A ring..._

_The necklace burned me. It blurred my vision. It ate up some of me, until I couldn’t touch it anymore._

_The burn of it reminded me of something. A memory just out of my grasp._

_And then it made me angry. It stole some of the me I have recollected and replaced it with thorns. Suddenly, I could burn down the whole house. I could break his nose a thousand times. I could drag him deep down into the earth, and ask him if he understands even a morsel of how trapped I feel._

_I’ll be damned to hell before an orphan’s necklace keeps me from my peace._

-

The necklace is still cold as it rests against my neck again. The skin there is tender, but the coolness feels nice against it. Maybe putting the necklace back on isn’t such a good idea. But I don’t want to lose it. 

It’s been easy to explain a lot of things that have happened in the house. The constant sounds, the earthquake that hit the paintings- but it’s not so easy to explain how I just watched my necklace fly across the room as if someone were dragging it. It was like someone had tilted the room to the side and let the necklace slip across the floor- but with no accompanying vertigo.

I've gotten used to the brief instances of weirdness, so much that I don't even think about most of them anymore. 

It’s hard to think about. Too confusing. Especially since the necklace commotion seems to have shaken the bed. It rocks from side to side, groaning on the floorboards.

But then it doesn’t stop for a full minute. 

“Stop!Just fucking stop," I shout, to my own surprise, as I grab the bedpost to steady it. There's nobody here. I'm not talking to anyone. The man in my dream didn't miraculously come to life.

It keeps shaking, trembling beneath my hand harder and harder until suddenly the bed is practically sliding across the floor. I stumble back, grabbing onto the freshly stained dresser to steady myself as I stare, in horror, as the bed suddenly stops moving.

And then the dresser is ripped from my hand and slams, facedown, on the floor.

“You’re so fucking dramatic!” I squawk, jumping back a full foot from the dresser. “You can’t fucking have it!” 

A pillow rises from the bed, shaking the indentation of my head from it in the process. It raises in the air before flinging itself across the room, hitting me with such force that my head tilts back. Then it falls to the floor. 

The room goes immediately still after the pillow hits the floor. It settles, a single feather flitting up from an opening in the back. I stare at it. At the now still bed, and the dresser that lays still on my floor. 

And then I turn around and walk out of the room. 

It isn’t fear that propels me down the still-unlit stairwell. It feels like something in my gut is pulling me from the tower. Like there’s a fishing hook stuck in my belly button, and the fisherman is starting to reel me out of the water that is my house. 

My feet move robotically as they guide me down the stairs, and I don’t dare to look at the painting once I’m on the main level. I don’t want to see him holding a pillow, or glaring at the necklace, or apologizing for hitting me. I don’t want to see anything. I just want to go somewhere else.

Penny probably won’t want me to cut the grass. It’s raining hard. Everything smells wet.

I knock on the door twice.

“Hi! You’re quite early,” Penny says as she opens the door, a pleasant smile on her face. I’m not sure what time it is, or even how to respond to that. I’m not even sure what to do with my hands. Laying them at my side feels weird. “Shepard isn’t even home yet!”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Penny’s expression turns downward. I’m still not sure what to do with my hands. I lift one up and grab onto the cross around my neck. Penny says something, then pauses.

“Come here. Come, sit. I’ll get you some tea,” She says. I don’t really like tea, but I sit on a plush chair in their living room anyway. 

It feels like barely a second later when Penny comes back, holding a steaming mug from its handle. I didn’t realize I was staring at a point in their wall until she blocks my view. I blink the dryness from my eyes and take the mug from her, holding it in both of my hands. The cup is too hot to hold, but I can’t make myself move my hands. There’s a dark liquid inside that smells a lot like my house. I don’t want to take a sip of it. 

Penny sits in the loveseat directly next to me. She didn’t bring herself a mug. I wish she did. I might give her mine. It’s not like I want to drink it.

“What happened?” She asks. The softness in her voice is alarming. It wraps around my head, covering my ears like those thick white headbands I’ve seen girls wear to pull the hair from their eyes. I wonder if Penny has ever worn one of those headbands. 

I realize a second too late that I’ve been silent for too long. Still, too. I shift a little in my seat, sighing and tilting my head back. The tea sloshes over the side, but luckily it spills on my hand instead of the floor.

“I just…” I force out, but the rest of the words aren’t coming. I just _what_? My eyes feel detached from my ears- they’re both a mile away from my mouth. I’d need a map just to get back to my mouth. 

My eyes cross, or maybe they spread apart, but I’m staring at the wall again. Sucked into it. I could live in that space, where the wall swirls. I could stay there and block out everything that’s ever happened. Cover me in drywall. 

“You just what?” She asks, sounding far away. Her hand is on my knee. I didn’t notice her putting it there, but I can see it. 

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. My eyes still feel crossed when I close them.

“My house.” I start. Maybe I’m not the one controlling my mouth. “Things keep happening."

“What kind of things?”

“Um,” I’m sure I’m making a stupid face, my eyes closed and my eyebrows furrowed. “He wanted to take my necklace. And then he…. Threw something… I think.”

“Who’s _he?_ ”

“ _Who’s he?_ ” I repeat, realizing two seconds too late that I sound like I’m mocking her. It’s the right question. Who is he? _Who’s he_?

Penny says something. 

I lift a hand to my neck, tugging my necklace. There’s a shoot of pain across my skin. It makes me jump. 

Who the fuck is _he_? Who am I talking about? There was nobody in my house. 

Who was I screaming at?

Penny’s hand is heavy against my knee. It almost feels like she’s pushing against my leg. But I can feel it now. More and more.

“I…” I choke out a miserable little laugh, shaking my head. “God, I don’t know what I’m talking about. There was nobody there. My, um…”

“Something got thrown?”

“Uh, yeah. My dresser fell. And, a pillow.” It sounds more and more ridiculous as I speak aloud. Suddenly the cup is too hot in my hand. Plus, my hand is wet. I set the mug down on a coffee table and turn to look at Penny. She’s staring at me with intensity, despite the softness in her voice. “I don’t know. I feel crazy. For a second I thought… it felt like someone was there with me. Like…”

My voice cuts. I don’t have the balls to say who I thought was there with me. Even if I did, I’m not sure I want to tell Penny.

Shepard wouldn’t think I’m crazy, but Penny’s a different story. I can’t tell Penny that I think that the _Piss Baby painting_ is responsible for all my problems in life. 

“I think I’m just imagining things.”

Her eyes go soft again. 

“Shepard’s put a lot of stories into your head. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

“I know! I know there isn’t. It’s just…” I look at my house through the window. No matter how much work I do on the inside, the outside still looks decrepit. It still looms over the neighborhood like it’s getting ready to pounce. Or maybe like it’s looking for me, getting ready for me to return so it can break my nose again.

That's ridiculous, I think. There's nothing wrong with the house.

“You’re just stressed. It’s been a difficult few weeks. I mean, you broke your nose the second you got here.” She hesitates, a hand settling on my shoulder instead of my leg. Sometimes Penny does this- ending a phrase looking like she’s calculating something. I wonder if there’s a lot of math involved in her profession. I’m not really sure what lawyers do when they’re not in court. 

I sigh. “God, yeah. You’re right.”

She looks at me for a moment with her lip trapped between her teeth, before suddenly springing back into action. She’s on her feet, walking away. “Come on, then. Are you alright to go back? I can go check what’s going on. Maybe there’s something wrong with your pipes. And I’ll check under your bed for monsters.”

I nod, following her to the door, even though I’m not sure if she’s joking. It hadn’t occurred to me to look under the bed, but it did seem to be the root of a lot of the issues. It would be ridiculous to make Penny look under it for me though. 

I’m also not sure I want to go back to the house. But, Penny seems to know what she’s doing. 

The door swings open just as Penny’s hand closes around the knob, and she jumps back with an agility that I didn’t expect from her. For a flash, I expect to see the man from the painting enter their house. 

Shepard grins the second he sees us both, not even questioning the fact that I’m alone with his wife. He walks inside with arms spread. I didn’t realize how bright it still was after sitting here for so long, but the sunlight haloes around him until I can barely see his face. He hugs me before Penny, but he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” He says, lips still partially pursed in Penny’s kiss as he turns to me. He’s wearing a sweater with patches on the elbows- he looks like a cool professor. “You headed somewhere? There’s a taxi parked outside your house.”

“What?” Penny exclaims, pushing past Shepard to look out the door. When she turns around there’s a sour look on her face, though I’m not sure why. She’s still blocking the door, so I step close and lean up on my toes to see around her.

He was right. There’s a yellow cab parked right outside my house. 

Penny squeezes herself away from the door, stepping inside so I can move past her and stand on the porch. The left brake light is smashed in, accompanying a large dent in the back of the car. It’s still running, and it takes me a moment of staring at the car to notice that the reason I can’t see the driver is because the driver’s seat is on the wrong side. 

I’ll never get used to that…

“Hey, just come inside,” Shepard says warily. The two of them are standing there watching me from the doorway. Penny says something hushed and hurried to him, but I’m not paying enough attention to make it out. 

I duck down, trying to see around the posts of their deck so I can get a view into the car. I don’t have to get a good look to know who it is. 

A hand on the steering wheel, with blackened nails and greenish skin. His pumpkin head is facing the front door of my house. His nails tap against the wheel.

I turn to Shepard and Penny, and my expression must give away my horror. Penny rushes forward, and I’m not sure I see her grab my shoulder, but suddenly I’m being pushed in the door. Shepard closes and locks it behind me.

What could he possibly be doing here? Why would he come back to my house?

Did I ever take back the paper with my address?

“You’re going to spend the night here,” Penny says, steadying me with two hands on my shoulders. She’s looking up at me to look into my eyes, but it feels like I’m the smaller one. “You can sleep in the spare room.”

The shock of it all takes me off guard for a second, and she’s speaking with such force in her voice, that all I can do is nod dumbly.

“It’ll be fun!” Shepard adds with a grin. “Like a sleepover!”

“Um… I… But-” I start, but Penny shakes her head. 

“I won’t hear a word against it.”

I open my mouth but close it again. My shoulders slump and Penny releases them.

“I’ll go make some popcorn!”

_-_

_He leaves, as he’s left before. It doesn’t concern me as it once did. He always returns. There is always a huffed bumbling at the door. He treats me like a dog treats a toy._

_No, not me. The house._

_His presence today filled me with what felt like rage. His confusion, his anger, his fear- they all plagued me. I’m kept from what I wanted. I keep wanting._

_Or maybe I’m plaguing him._

_The sun sets. Sinks below the horizon. Drowns. I’m not sure if it will return. He doesn’t_

_I realize that I was once like him. Skin and bones and blood instead of wood and nails. I know this because I can remember. I can remember feeling._ This _is not feeling._

_Now all I do is take what he gives me. Take what’s leftover. What I am now is nothing compared to what I once was._

_Now I am simply a drop in the temperature. I can cool him when it gets too hot. What more than that, if I am not feeding on him?_

_When he’s here my nature is frantic. I encircle him like there’s nothing else in the universe- I’m not quite sure there is. He is the sun, and I orbit him. I feed upon energy from him- photosynthesis._

_He doesn’t even realize it, not until I do something with it. I take so little, or he has so much, that he simply gives it away for free. I drink it like ambrosia. I feel the things he feels. I use him to manipulate the surroundings. I watch him try to find me without knowing who he’s looking for._

_It’s power. It’s a power I don’t understand or enjoy. And yet, I am a moth to his flame. I know that it’s too much. I know that something about encroaching on him is wrong._

_When he’s gone it’s quiet, and I simmer. The longer he goes away, the less of me there is. I feel myself slipping again_ . _I feel less and less of me. More and more of dead emptiness. More house, less Baz._

_Rage is so much better than emptiness._

_Perhaps the necklace burned him because it’s charmed against me. Though, that doesn’t feel fair. It’s not_ me _it protects against. It’s ancient magic, a talisman against evil spirits is weaved into the gold plating. It stops me from touching him. It doesn’t stop me from trying._

_(Is that what I am now?_

_An evil spirit?)_

_Regardless, it burnt_ me _first. I don’t have hands, but I can touch things. I can focus and reach for things using his energy as if I were reaching them with magic. I tried for the necklace twice. It hurt too much._

_I remember magic. I recall how it felt inside me. It didn’t hurt me as this does. There was never any energy required outside of my own- now I have to wait for the boy to be here to be able to pull myself into focus._

_I remember spells to rid this same house of creatures such as myself. Is this how they felt? Unresolved. Hungry._

_I regret pushing them out. Maybe they’d talk to me if they were here. We could’ve found kinship. Would they have been my competition? Would we suck the life from him, until he is a husk of a man?_

_Still, he’d be more than I am._

_I wonder where they are now. If I will join them if I can’t get to_ him. _Limbo. Purgatory. Hell. Or, is there nothing? Will my nothing become all?_

_I wonder why I’m here._

_I wonder when he will return._

_I wonder what I need._

_But all I can think of is him._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of WW2/Nazis and period typical homophobia

Everything feels empty. 

Lifeless.

The house. The bag of chips (‘crisps’) abandoned on my bedside table. Me.

We’re all devoid of substance. For the first time since coming here, I feel not like I’m going to be eaten, but like I already have been and I seemed to miss it. 

I don’t think I realized it out of the blue. It’s like the tiredness was always there, but now I can taste it. Now it pushes thick molasses through my veins and makes me too heavy to move. 

Now, as I push myself out of bed and look out the windows at a cloudy Lancashire, I can certainly taste molasses. 

It’s late, definitely past noon. I should have gotten a clock or something. Penny keeps saying I should get a phone, so that way I won’t have to rely on the exact location of the sun in the sky. Plus, then, I could text them both whenever I wanted to. Even if they were busy at work.

Or, at least, she used to say that. Before she left. 

The curtains are spread open. It was probably an attempt from the night before to give myself some sunlight. Past me is an idiot though. He didn’t know it would be pouring out. It always is. I close the curtains before starting my descent down from the tower. 

As negative as the energy may have been before, everything up until now has at least felt like energy. Now, nothing feels energetic at all. At least, I don’t. Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe I’m just depressed.

But that doesn’t feel right. It’s more than that. 

For one, the house feels empty. 

Nothing creaks anymore. There’s no settling or crashing or taunting. The only sounds I hear are the ones I make. The only things I see are things that I manipulated; right now, a Pokémon (Charmander) night light that illuminates the tower staircase.

I realize, as I reach the bottom of the stairs before starting the next set to the main floor of the house, that I haven’t been dreaming either. Not all of my dreams had the strange hand in it, but all of them were a little weird. Now, even though I sleep all the time, I don’t dream about anything. 

I knew I would feel alone when I moved in. I’m not sure why the loneliness waited until now to settle.

Maybe it’s partially because nothing strange has happened in a while.

It’s weird to say that I’ve gotten used to this house roughing me up, but maybe I did. It felt, in a lot of ways, like the house _is_ someone. Like, maybe Shepard was right about the ghost.

The _Pitch_ house. I love Shepard, but he can be really stupid. 

I’m embarrassed to even think that I really did start to believe it. Like, at the end of last week, when I was taking a shower.

Getting hot water in the house has been a godsend, but the shower is still as old as fuck. It’s got weird, bright green tiles, and instead of a curtain like there was at the home, it has a glass door. I’m kinda shocked the glass hasn’t been shattered. I also feel super vulnerable when I’m inside since it’s not tinted at all.

By the time I finished taking off my clothes the glass had already started to fog up. That’s partially why I always took such hot showers- so the fog would block anyone from seeing me. Not that anyone’s there to see.

Then, though, I had started to believe that maybe that wasn’t true. It always _felt_ like somebody was there. 

Anyway, the weirdest part was that it looked like there was a handprint on the inside of the glass. I don’t remember putting my hand there before stepping out to undress. Even if I hadn’t, though, sometimes handprints stay over from the last time you touched it. So I stepped inside and didn’t give it another thought.

The shower seemed to be going as normal, shampoo and a quick piss, when another hand appeared on the glass.

This time I was certain I didn’t put it there.

I stared at it for a second, watching a water droplet race down the glass and onto the shower floor. Then, right as I watched, two more handprints appeared against the glass. I couldn’t see any physical hands, but the way the mark formed was so tight that I could almost see fingerprints against the surface.

I stepped back, instinctively lifting my hands to cover my crotch.

“Um,” I started, voice a little hoarse from disuse. Penny and Shepard had already been gone for a few days at that point, so I hadn’t been speaking aloud much. “Are… you in here?” I had to stop myself from tacking on a ‘ghost?’

Nothing happened for a second, but the stream of water grew steadily colder. I stepped away from its force once I started to shiver, looking up just in time to notice a ‘yes’ written on the glass.

I chewed on my lower lip. I remember tasting blood and adjusting my hands.

“Um, do you have to… be in the shower with me?” I asked then, staring at the glass. It wasn’t like there was anyone to look at, so the glass itself would have to be good enough. 

Even then, it must’ve been a side effect of loneliness. There’s no way that someone was actually in the shower with me. Even though it felt like someone stood with their shoulder pressed to mine. 

I watched as the ‘yes’ got underlined in one slow swoop.

“Why?”

Nothing happened on the glass, but, just then, I felt a cool breeze overtake my body. It settled into my bones like my skin was split open and someone had turned a fan on them. It felt like someone had stepped inside of me, but that their entire body was made of wind. Like they’d placed their feet inside my feet and let their shoulders fill out mine. I felt bigger.

I closed my eyes. It didn’t smell like my dollar store soap anymore. It smelled like the tea Penny made choke down. I knew I had recognized that smell.

“Pitch,” I heard. It was my voice. I was nodding.

After a second the breeze stopped. At least, it stopped feeling so encompassing. It touched my shoulders once. Then it encircled my neck.

I stood, frozen, as the phantom breath wrapped around my throat.

My chin jutted out and I flared my nostrils. He’d hurt me before; I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to strangle me. What would I even do if he did? Would he pass right through my neck? Would I feel a vice grip against my throat? Would I be able to push him off?

I didn’t move.

My necklace lifted for half a second and then fell again. It bounced against my chest. I looked down at it. It felt cool. I thought then, that things started to make sense.

Then, as if none of it had happened, the entire thing seemed to disappear. Suddenly I was alone again. The glass was blank, and the water was hot. 

If there _was_ a ghost (there wasn’t), he must’ve moved out. Or maybe he’s been hibernating. Even thinking about that shower creeps me out. Thinking that I talked to it, and it responded… 

I’m glad it seems to be gone. 

But, even if that’s the case, the issue with the house being empty is that _I_ feel empty too.

It’s probably mostly because Penny and Shepard are out of town. After a couple of precautionary nights at their house, Shepard woke me up one morning to tell me they were leaving. He said it was a business trip. I didn’t know that lawyers went on business trips.

They begged me to stay in their house, but I already felt bad enough about staying there with them. I wasn’t going to take more advantage of their hospitality. When I told them that I wanted to go home they argued with me. 

“It doesn’t bother us,” Penny urged. She had her hands on my shoulders again, and her eyes wouldn’t leave mine. They bore into me. “You can stay here. I want you to stay here.”

In the end, Penny backed down. It’s rare for me to win arguments against her nowadays, but she looked tired. She hiked her bag up her shoulder and told me not to leave my house under any circumstance, and that they’d come over as soon as they got home. I didn’t get why she was so concerned.

So I went back home. Luckily, the cab driver hasn’t come back since the time he parked outside. But, I’ve been super cautious about locking everything, just in case. I haven’t left the house either. If I can trust anyone it should be Penny.

Penny and Shepard have been away for over a week and a half now. I didn’t realize you could miss someone so much. Being away from them must be what’s really taking a toll on me. 

I feel full of nothing. Gutless, almost. I sleep all the time. It’s hard to get out of bed. When I do, I just go downstairs and lie down there.

It’s even a little hard to know what’s going on. I just sort of float from room to room when I’m not lounging. I’m not even sure what day it is.

It probably isn’t so healthy to depend on Penny and Shepard so much, but being without them proves how much I rely on them. Going over to their house meant a lot to me. Without them, I’m stuck here. I don’t have anything to do or anything to see.

I’ve been planning on getting a job- a real one. I know, logically, that now is the time to do it. If I have a real job by the time they get back, then I won’t have to mooch off of my friends anymore. There are places hiring in town too. It’s a little bit of a walk, but I can make it.

I don’t know. Leaving the house would make me feel better. Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning in it. It’s so fucking big. Drowning in it doesn’t do it justice. It feels like it’s _sucking_ the air out of me. 

But I can’t leave. I think about just walking up and opening the door; I can’t do it. It feels like there are weights tied to my feet. I don’t want to look Penny in the eye and tell her I did exactly what she told me not to do. Even if I don’t think I’m in any danger.

My feet lay flat on the tile of the main floor. The room is empty, but I got a rug and put it in front of the fireplace. It’s too warm. I lay down next to it and close my eyes.

_He doesn’t have enough in him. I’m not sure he ever did, but at this point especially- there is nothing. I cling to him, desperate. All I do is take from him. There is still not enough for me to pull myself into consciousness. It just seems like I’m making him tired._

_It tires me too._

_I want to fade away. I just want this to end._

The tile is cold against my back since I took off my shirt. Maybe I never put one on. 

I lift a hand to my necklace, wrapping my fingers around the metal. It’s warm, on account of being rested against my skin. The contrasting temperatures remind me of the now-scar on my neck… Reminds me of… 

My eyes open, and I’m staring at the high vaulted ceiling. 

I haven’t looked at the painting in a while. I must avert my eyes every time I walk past it because it feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve met his gaze. There have been brief moments where I’ve thought about trying to take it down again- maybe after putting on a helmet or something. Now, though, I wouldn’t dare. It’s his house as much as it is mine. 

Which maybe means that it doesn’t belong to either of us.

Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve thought he’s been here with me.

I sit up and let my eyes travel down. 

He’s still there. He looks exactly the same as the first time I walked in. There’s nothing in his expression except for the muted tears and silent intensity of before. It makes me wonder if I’ve just been imagining the changes.

Maybe I’ve just imagined everything.

It’s hard to justify myself in the past month. Everything that has happened- everything that has _seemed_ to have happened. Especially now. Now that nothing happens in this house. That the house feels empty. 

It’d be a stretch to say that I miss all the weird things that have happened in my house. But, underneath all the pain, there was something. _Something_ that curbed my loneliness. 

I stare at him for a long while. The curves of his jaw, the slope of his nose. I’ve looked at him, but generally, it’s been from fear.

Now, I feel like I understand him. He’s crying.

He’s alone. 

He’s stuck in that fucking painting. In _this_ fucking house. 

I push myself to my feet and approach the mantle, watching my own feet to make sure I don’t trip again. The stone of the fireplace is cold under my arms as I lean against it. I half expect it to crumble underneath me. It doesn’t. 

Up close, I can see the cracks in the spray paint surrounding him. Most of the graffiti around the house is gone- either from the time all the paintings fell or from the buckets of paint and stain I’ve applied to the walls. I didn’t have the heart to remove the “piss baby,” though. It’s too funny. I want to get it framed.

The arrow underneath the phrase points so close that the painter almost painted on top of the frame- but they stopped short. 

I wonder if the painter felt as strange about touching it as I do. Maybe that’s why they avoided painting on top of it. I doubt they were here for long enough to want to touch it, let alone notice the fact that it’s now crooked.

I wonder if they averted their eyes as they wrote the words like I do when I lift the corner of the frame. I’m certain that the spray painter didn’t hear a thud on the stone mantle.

I pick it up, feeling my mouth drop open. 

It’s the journal that was in the tower. 

The one I tossed and found on the floor. The one that I ran from and never saw again.

I glance up at him. Like I expect him to have an answer for this. 

A few days ago I might have thought _he_ was the answer to all this. Right now, I think he might have been just as much of a victim.

I sit cross-legged in front of the fireplace.

I’ve never gotten around to starting a fire, mostly because Penny mentioned that sometimes animals like to live inside of them. Right now I wish I had some firewood. A surge of coolness runs through my body.

One more glance up at the painting. 

He isn’t looking at me. Staring at the same place in the tile as always. There should be a worn spot where his eyes rest. If I sit here for long enough there will be a hole through my body.

I open the book to the first page. 

**_This is the journal of Tyrannus Basilton Grimm- Pitch. If found, please return to the owner._ **

**_August 15th, 1939_ **

**_Today, I have received word of the death of my maternal grandmother._** **_I have never met her, which doesn’t come as a surprise. Father didn’t engage with the Pitch family after mother’s death._**

**_Her wealth and name didn’t seem to be enough for her to write up a will, as her estate has been divided up to her closest relative. This, of course, was my aunt Fiona. It is of good luck that Fiona has no need for two houses, and therefore signed grandmother’s vacation home to me._ **

**_The property in question is located in Lancashire. Why someone would need a vacation home in Lancashire of all places is beside me._ **

**_It, from what I’ve heard from Fiona, is abhorrent. The property was abandoned long ago, as grandmother had fallen ill long before her death and had no need of a vacation._ **

**_Still, I feel grateful for this gift. We have been living in a flat above a fishmonger for the past few months. You would assume we would get used to the smell. That hasn’t been the case._ **

**_Besides the smell, the flat hasn’t been a horrible place to live. But, I’m afraid, the landlord has begun to grow suspicious._ **

**_The space is only suitable for one, but my husband and I share it. It was assumed that we were sharing the property as bachelors, I suppose. The single bed he startled upon during a surprise visit seemed to be evident enough of otherwise. The rings we both don only add to the suspicion._ **

**_We had discussed moving after he made a few passing comments about adding ‘maintaining holiness’ to our contract. I suppose we’re lucky he phrased it in that way. Another phrasing may have resulted in a call to the authorities._ **

**_At any rate, the news of the house couldn’t have come at a better time. We certainly couldn’t afford a house otherwise. I can’t help but grow excited at the idea of having a home together. A place of solitude, where no one can disturb our life together._ **

**_I must go now. I am running late._ **

I frown, lifting my head up for just a moment while I try to register what I just read. Shepard said that no “Pitch” had ever actually existed, but I’m holding Mr. T-rex Pitch’s journal in my hands. Does that mean that I’m related to him? Was the journal behind the painting because he’s Tyrannus?

My eyes flit up to him, half expecting him to be snarling at me. The house didn’t seem to be happy that I was reading the journal before. Today it’s silent. 

I flip ahead.

**_November 3rd, 1939_ **

**_I went to the house today. Of course, I didn’t stay there. I promised my husband I wouldn’t move in until he returns._ **

**_I merely went to view the property. I promised him I wouldn’t move in until he got there, but I did not promise not to_** ** _go_** **_to the house._**

**_It’s hideous._ **

**_I shouldn’t complain, but I will anyway. Nobody is going to read this journal, so my worst thoughts are free to live here._ **

**_Yes, we are in economic turmoil, but is it impossible to get a_ ** **nice** **_free mansion? It’s ancient. There is nothing about it that I like._ **

**_Anyway, since he’s so determined to be part of the ‘renovating’ process, I didn’t do too much. Mostly just things that he’d be unable to do and might be upset to see me doing with magic: fixing structural issues, cleaning out toxins (what is the normals’ obsession with asbestos?), expelling ghosts. That sort of thing._ **

“Yeah, right,” I mumble to myself. My voice echoes in the room. 

**_I would’ve liked to have done more. It might be nice to begin living there before he returns so I can begin the painstaking process of making it livable. But, I can understand his concern. He wants it to be_ ** **_our_ ** **_house, he said so in his letters. I want it to be our house too. I just wish it could be our house_ ** **_now_ ** **_._ **

**_Anyway, I’m growing tired of writing, and I still need to write my evening letter to him. So I must go._ **

I might be imagining it, but it almost looks like there were teardrops in the ink. I make a point not to look up at the tearful painting. 

It makes me wonder what _happened_ to his husband. And, more than anything else, how does it all relate to me? How did _I_ get into the same house that this man must’ve lived in?

There’s a gap in the book as if something has been ripped out. But the way the pages settle makes it seem like there couldn’t have been more than one or two pages missing. I have to fold down the next page to keep reading. 

**_March 12th, 1941_ **

**_I must write this all down quickly before I forget it. I apologize for my lack of recent entries, but I need to log this week in my memories._ **

**_This week has been a whirlwind. We had limited time to move into the house. He only had two weeks between training and deployment. It was foolish of me to assume that my husband may like to relax during his time off. Instead, he wanted to move into our new old house._ **

**_I, of course, am unable to say no to him even at the best of times, let alone after six months without laying eyes on him. So, when he told me that he wanted to prepare for our life together after his deployment, I naturally said yes._ **

**_Our time together has been lovely. To avoid specifics, I’m almost surprised I’m not pregnant (This was his joke. I usually wouldn’t laugh at that sort of thing, but absence makes the heart grow fonder)._ **

**_My joy is not for the house. It was just as hideous as I remember it. Even with our furniture moved in._ **

**_My husband says I’m dramatic, but it’s true. It’s old in fashion and horrifically drab. It’s gothic and dark in all the worst ways- and_ ** **_I’m_ ** **_the vampire._ **

**_After moving all the boxes in we worked together to fix up the place. He wanted to sleep in the tower, of course, so we began by decorating our bedroom. As much as I complained, it is a lovely room. I have never seen windows of that size. We painted the walls a lovely blue, and, when I left to go to the bathroom, I found that my husband had painted a dragon onto the door._ **

**_“So I can be here with you, even when I’m not actually here,” He said._ **

**_I apologize for the smudges. The whole ordeal has left me very emotional. He’s asleep next to me, curled up as always. (Is this how he sleeps in the barracks? Is this how he will sleep in his tents?). I can’t sleep. I just keep staring at him. The curls of his hair, the blankets of red around him. I don’t know if my heart can take being ripped away from him again._ **

**_He looks stronger. He’s always his best when he’s in some sort of battle, I know, but it’s still shocking to see it. The physical training he’s undergone has left him much larger than what I remember. But he still has the softness I’ve spent so long yearning for. I wish to take a picture of him right now but I don’t have a camera. Even if I had, I dare not get up and disturb him._ **

**_Instead, I will just watch him sleep after I finish writing this. Better yet, I’ll find a way to squeeze into his (big!) arms without waking him._ **

**_I probably will not be able to write much again until after he is gone again. I don’t want to waste another moment when I could be touching him. I will do my best to remember every moment and every crease in his skin._ **

**_March 20th, 1941._ **

**_He left today._ **

**_There are no words strong enough to describe the ache. I fully believe that he took my heart with him._ **

**_He held my face in his hands. He promised he’d return. He promised we’d get our life together._ **

**_Alongside everything, I am left feeling tired. Sad, replenished, hopeful, yes. But tired. Deeply tired. It’s the strange tiredness you often feel before an illness settles in, but I don’t feel ill. I’m not sure if it’s been from doing so much this week. I’m more concerned that perhaps he feels this tired as well. I hope he can sleep. I know I will not be sleeping._ **

**_He promised he would return. It’s all I can hold onto right now._ **

**_I’ll wait for him._ **

**_I will always wait for him._ **

The concern of it all makes my heart race. Part of me feels bad for even touching the journal, but right now all I want to know where his husband went. Plus, there are so many questions. A vampire? Magic? What the fuck is this guy talking about?

There’s a deep turning in my gut as I flip backward in the journal.

**_September 3rd, 1939_ **

**_The war has been progressing quite frightfully. So much so that even the mages are beginning to take concern with it. I, nor none of the professors at Watford, are being drafted. It seems as though the government wants trained mages at the forefront. I’m not sure if they realize that Nazis have mages too._ **

**_I pleaded with headmaster Mitali to offer him a job._ **

**_He could teach self-defense or swordsmanship. Or, he could work as a substitute or a groundskeeper._ **

**_She said that he had to serve in the war. He’s the chosen one, the thing of prophecy. She said that he was the greatest mage, regardless of whether he still was one or not._ **

**_Apparently, he’s expected to save us all from more than one Insidious Humdrum._ **

**_I don’t care. I don’t care about the affairs of the world. Politics aren’t a concern of mine, and they shouldn’t have to be a concern of his. I just want to steal him away in the night and hide him in the countryside. I want him to fly us to some long-forgotten island so we can live in peace. I just want him to have peace. I don’t care how treasonous that makes me. I don’t care for the puff in his chest and the jut of his chin when he claims he’s proud to go. Long live the fucking king._ **

**_I_ ** **_know_ ** **_he can save us all. Again. But I don’t want him to._ **

**_Simon departs for training in a month._ **

**_In a month, Simon Snow leaves me for the world again._ **

_“Simon Snow?”_ I gasp. Is that...

“ _Simon! Simon, my love…_ ” 

My head whips up so fast that the joints crack. Just inches from my face is what looks like a dark cloud. The air looks bent around the swirling, dark mass, and part of it is still attached to the painting.

“HhHOLY FUCK!”

I scramble to my feet, journal tossed aside. My shoes squeak against the tile as I back against the wall, hands outstretched. The cloud hovers a moment before jerking forward, freeing itself from the final attachment to the painting. It begins to float closer to me.

“Simon…” It rattles. The voice sounds like air being sucked through a straw and it travels through my entire body. 

I flatten myself against the wall, feeling myself start to breathe heavy. The cloud is swirling like it’s sucking the air from the room to keep itself up. It feels like it's sucking the air out of _me,_ I feel hot and dry- like I’m breathing sand.

“What do you want?!” I ask, starting to slide myself down the wall as it approaches me.

“Simon **,** ” It repeats, following me along the wall. It’s morphing, growing larger and more solid. The voice grows louder, repeating the name over and over, and then the mass is right in front of me, just inches from my face.

Something reaches out, like a hand, and touches my chest. 

“Get off!” I shout, my hand rising. My arm passes right through it, but a sudden thought grips me. “Get back!” I shout as loud as I can, grabbing my necklace. I lift it off my neck and shove the cross into what looks like would be its face. 

It works. The mass jerks back, some of the dark smoke of its being floating up in strips off of it and dissolving like wet cotton candy. It steadies again, this time further from me, but I can still feel the sucking in the air.

“What… what do you want?” I shout again, hearing my voice crack. “Why are you here?”

“ _Simon_ ,” It insists. Despite the horrifying sound of its voice, there’s something desperate underneath. A moaning. _Pleading_. “I need you… _Simon_.” 

“I-I don’t know Simon!”

“You. _You_. Simon!”

“That’s not my fucking name!”

And _that’s_ when everything explodes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya!! sorry this took so long!! school punches me in the face every single day <3 
> 
> this is the final chapter!!!! get ready babey!!!!!!! how many bones can we break in one fic
> 
> also, mild MILD tw for: mentions of nazis/WWII, MCD

**Penelope**

I should’ve known. The moment he walked through my door- I should’ve known. 

Crooked, bloody nose be damned, I still should’ve  _ seen  _ it. I should’ve been paying closer attention. 

I’ve seen the bloody pictures! I’ve read the textbooks, the old newspapers, the academic journals- all of them. Hell, I wrote a bloody research paper on him in Watford! 15 bloody pages.

I, of all people, should’ve known that Simon bloody Snow was standing in my living room.

Or, _something_ like that.

I’m not cutting myself enough slack. I knew that Luke looked like  _ someone _ . Maybe it took me a little while to figure out who it was, but I knew something was up. 

As soon as Luke went home that first night I dug through my old Watford papers. And Nicks and Slick when I say he looks just like him...

But I didn’t think that  _ mattered _ . 

The things that have been happening to Luke have been weird, that’s for sure. But, nothing has been totally out of the ordinary, given the house he’s been living in. I mean, he’s been living in the goddamn Pitch house, for magic’s sake. There hasn’t been a Pitch whose laid silently to rest in generations- how the coven expected Tyrannus, piss baby himself, to abstain from haunting is beyond me.

I thought Luke would get  _ tired  _ of being haunted. He’d come over and, with help from Shepard, announce that he was living with a ghost. I thought that he’d accept our help, move out of the house, and leave Basilton to brood. If not that, I expected to have to sneak in one day and dispel Basilton Grimm-Pitch for him. 

I didn’t _ want  _ to do that. I’d feel terrible if I had to force Basilton into the afterlife. Ghosts remain earthbound for a reason- our science doesn’t have the answers to what happens when one is forced into the next realm without fulfilling their ultimate goal. 

Plus, perhaps it's selfish, but I’ve clung to a tiny shred of pride living next to the Pitch house. _The_ Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch haunted my neighbor’s house. Deep down, I always thought that I’d be the one to help him cross over- even though he avoided all attempts I’d made to contact him.

Luke comes over and it’s a full haunt-fest. Just because he  _ looks _ like the guy. 

Typical. 

Anyway, even though he was being haunted, Luke seemed to be fine. Sure, a bit shook up. A few broken bones- nothing I couldn’t fix (I did fix them. The kid didn’t even notice how quickly his nose snapped back into place, but kept complaining that it was crooked for weeks after).

It wasn’t until the goblin showed up outside of his house that I was sure about how everything connected.

Basilton thinking that Luke looks like Simon is one thing- he’s a fucking ghost. Full-time ghost, blinded by the woe of time. But if the goblins are after him too…

That’s when I decided I had to go back to Watford.

Luckily, after my mother became headmaster, she put a huge emphasis on written research to reverse what damages The Mage had done. The Watford library has seen more renovations in her past 20 years as headmaster than it ever has in its history as a school. There’s probably a copy of every book ever written, legal or not, in that library. The restricted section alone is larger than any library in the United Kingdom. 

So if there was anywhere to find the death certificate for Simon Snow, it would be there. 

That’s the weirdest thing about it all. I know so much about Simon. Growing up we learned about him through songs and stories. I kept up with all of the biographies and theories, even after my time at Watford. He’s the knight in shining armor that saved magic, reformed our politics, and fucking ended the second world war. Everyone knows everything there is to know about the guy. 

Except for how he died.

We know he’s dead.

I’m pretty sure he’s dead.

I think he’s dead.

I  _ thought _ he was dead. Until Luke showed up.

He  _ has _ to be dead. He’d be over 100 years old by now. And, from what I’ve heard from the people who met him, he was never too cautious with his life. Plus, as far as I know, Simon got drafted into the Second World War. 

And then the paper trail stopped.

That’s where all the textbooks leave him. I always thought he had died at the end of the war, but once Luke showed up I started digging through my textbooks again. None of them say he died at war. Not a single, “Simon died in the second world war,” but, “and then Simon got drafted and killed all the Nazis. The end.”

They write it like Simon Snow at war was some sort of happily ever after. 

I can’t believe I had missed something so strange before. It just didn’t seem important at the time. 

Now it seems important! 

If I don’t know how he died, and not a single piece of literature in the magical world knows how Simon died- do the goblins think he’s still alive? That Luke is fair game for their claim for king-ship?

Does Basilton think he’s still alive?

Is that why he hasn’t crossed over? 

My mother isn’t really the headmaster of Watford anymore. She’s pushing 90- a lovely, sprightly little thing, but ancient nonetheless. Nobody had the audacity to ask her to leave when she reached a proper retirement age. So they left her an office and both she and the current administration pretend that she’s actually ‘doing work.’ 

What she’s really doing is acting as the world’s unhelpful librarian- never telling anyone where anything is, but scowling when you talk too loud.

“You’re not telling me something, Mum.” 

“I’m not _ not  _ telling you something, Penelope,” She sighs, flitting across her office while tapping furiously at her phone. Mum has started to do that in her old age- flit. Her anxious energy has somehow eased itself into grace. “I’m just… trying to keep you out of trouble.”

“I’m not a child, mother. I’m not off looking for a cryptid with Shepard anymore. This is serious research and if you’re able to aid in it-”

“Alright! Alright. Enough pestering. You’re giving me a migraine.” She sighs, even though I’ve only been in the office for about 5 minutes, and only just brought up Simon around the last 2. She spins on her heel and stomps in defeat to the back bookcase in her office. A book is in her hands without her even needing to look up from her phone. “I have this one in here so no Shepard 2.0 will start looking for Simon Snow.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Well, no.” She sits at her desk, blowing the dust off of the book before opening it. She placed it on top of her phone, so it wobbles on her desk. “Not that anyone ever found the body… it was just easier to assume he died after a while.”

I sit across from her, realizing that she’s not going to just give me the book. She holds it steady instead of simply moving her phone out of the way. Her eyes glide over the page behind her half-circle frames. 

“So, he was lost at war?”

“No, he returned from the war. We know that for sure…” She speaks slowly, leaning in towards the book before sitting up straight again. “Ah, there it is. Copies of the letters between Simon and Basilton. After Simon disappeared we sent members of the Coven to the Pitch house to see if they could find any clues. It was apparent that Simon had been living there for some time, but there weren’t any clues to his location aside from a stack of letters that he had brought home from his deployment.”

“What do they say?”

“Nothing too important. Mostly just mushy, romantic things that the two had been spewing ever since Simon got drafted. Though, the final letter we collected  _ from _ Simon was him informing Baz that he would be returning home soon, as they believed the war to be over. The final letter we found addressed  _ to _ Simon was the letter from the Coven informing him of Basilton’s death. Sadly, they’re both dated the same.”

I pick up the book. She looks mildly annoyed.

The pages feature photocopies of yellowed letters in two different handwritings. They’re chronologically ordered- the two of them must have sent letters to each other nearly every single day. I flip through them slowly, scanning the pages as if Simon would’ve written the word “Luke” anywhere. 

“So the day Simon came back from the war… Basilton had died?” 

She nods, looking a little glum. Her lower lip lifts in almost a comical frown. I know my mother met Simon. I wonder if they had some sort of friendship. 

“Shortly after that, everyone stopped hearing from Simon. We… We should’ve checked on him. I mean, clearly, people did. Your father and I went to Basilton’s funeral- the whole bloody magical world was there, given Basilton’s status and Simon’s fame. It was the first time that dragons were allowed to a mage’s funeral, you know,” She pauses, looking somewhere above me. Her eyes have greyed in her age. She wears glasses in the shapes of half-moons, making the grey even more striking. Her voice is a little lilted when she starts speaking again. “That was the last time anyone saw Simon. He stopped responding to letters and phone calls. I went to visit and heard nothing, but I figured he was out to the shops or something… I should’ve paid more attention…”

“Do you think he killed himself?”

“Penelope!” She scolds, snatching the book from my hands. “Don’t talk about him like that. That man was a hero. You wouldn’t have your magic if not for him.”

“I know that, mum. I’m not being disrespectful. I’m just asking  _ how _ he _ died _ .” 

“I don’t  _ know _ , Penelope.” 

She opens her mouth as if she means to continue speaking and then closes it again, suddenly really interested in the letter open on the page before her. I glanced at it- it was something vaguely sexual. It takes her a few seconds too long to flip the page in a hurried huff.

“Mum… do you know  _ something? _ ”

“No.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Penelope Bunce. What does it matter? He’s dead. His husband is dead. They’re all dead. Just because you live by his house doesn’t mean you deserve to butt your head in on-”

“I need to know because the goblins have been tracking my neighbor, who looks suspiciously like Simon Snow. I need to know why they think that Simon Snow has magically reincarnated.” 

“Don’t be preposterous. Simon Snow hasn’t reincarnated,” She pauses, glancing at me before quickly looking away again. “And, well, if he _ has,  _ there’s no way that a  _ goblin _ would be able to tell that it’s him. He’s probably just some distant cousin and the goblins lost track of a hundred years. It wouldn’t be the first time this has happened, Penelope, you should know that. You can just file a restraining order in Goblin court to ask them to leave your friend alone.”

“Mum, don’t you think it's a little strange that both the ghost of Basilton  _ and _ the goblins think-”

“The ghost thinks he’s Simon too?”

“What? Yeah. But he’s just a ghost. Luke looks a lot like the pictures I’ve seen of Simon, so I assumed-“ 

“Ghosts don’t  _ see _ , Penelope,” She says, “Not the same way you and I do. They feel energy and manipulate from there. If Basilton thinks that Simon Snow is in the house…” 

She pauses, and, through the overwhelming grey, I see a spark of my mother’s truest self- grey is only ash from all that has been burned by her flame. She gulps. Her voice goes low.

“Then that  _ means that Simon Snow is in that house.” _

I pause.

Then scoff. 

“That’s ridiculous. You just said that he has to be dead. If he’s dead, wouldn’t Basilton know? Wouldn’t he be able to sense it or something?”

She rubs her chin for a moment, going quiet. Then she opens a drawer and pulls out a small wooden box.

“Yes, he should be able to sense it,” She mumbles, sounding far off. Her eyes are above me again, like there’s someone behind me giving her the information she’s looking for. I’ve been her daughter for long enough to know that nobody’s there. “Unless… he can’t find him.”

She opens the box. Her hands aren’t the hands that I remember. They look a little more like talons. I don’t visit often enough.

She pulls out a necklace. It’s a gold necklace, with a star of David pendant. Parts of the metal are black with age, but the gold shines through. 

I stare at her old hands.

“When Simon first disappeared… there were... rumors. Rumors that he had tried to tap into dark magic to try to bring Basilton back to life. I thought they were  _ despicable _ rumors, and I refused to hear of them on Watford grounds…” She paused to wet her lips, looking down at the necklace with a grim expression. “How ridiculous, to bring someone back from the dead? There is no reason good enough to do that. No amount of love…”

She pauses again.

“And then your father died,” She sighs, lifting the necklace and handing it to me. I cup my hands to look at it- it belonged to him. I remember him wearing it. But now there are burn marks on it. 

“There is a rumor,” She continues, clasping her hands together in front of her on her desk. “That was once spread around dark corners of the magickal communities- this was long before you were born, of course. Rumors don’t spread so easily now- one of the favorite tales that we’d tell one another was how to bring people back from the dead. We were mages, were we not? We should have control over all. Death shouldn’t exist for  _ mages _ .” She spits sarcastically at the end and shakes her head. 

“As a young girl I had heard those stories- if you could find a talisman- any faith, so long as there is an existing following for the deity- a mage could call on the deity it represented to demand that the dead person’s soul be placed in the confines of it.  _ Ship in a Bottle _ was the spell. An entire life inside the smallest object.

“Supposedly, it worked best on religious necklaces. That was because the next step was to place the talisman onto the body of the deceased. So long as the person kept the talisman on him, the body and the soul would remain connected, and the person would come back to life.”

She stands, walking over to a globe she has and slowly rotating it by walking her fingers across Europe. 

“The issue is that this is a myth.  _ Ship in a Bottle  _ doesn’t bring people back from the dead, hold onto their soul until they’re ready to die,” Another pause. “ _ Ship in a Bottle _ traps your soul into the object you’re holding. The only way out is to destroy the object. To destroy the ' bottle' with something more magically powerful.”

I lift the necklace. The chain had been snapped. 

“You-“

“No,” she cuts. She immediately looks like she regrets it. 

A knock at the door makes us both jump. The door opens at the wave of my mother’s hand and Shepard peeks in. He’s holding the crystal ball I left him in the hall with. I instantly feel bad- I forgot he was out there.

“I’m sorry guys. I hate to interrupt. But it looks like there’s an issue at Luke’s house. Like. A big one.” 

**Luke**

The walls are peeling. 

Like. Layers of wallpaper and panels of wood are being ripped off. Chunks rip off like as if a giant toddler was throwing a tantrum. The panels fly across the room and slam against other walls so hard that they shatter and throw splinters everywhere. 

I’m laying on the floor, covering the back of my head with my hands to hide from the smashing around me. 

“ _ Simon _ !” Shrieks the voice. It sounds like it’s all around me, coming from every direction. 

“That’s not my fucking name! Simon isn’t here!” I shout back, covering my ears with my palms. I glance over just in time to see a chunk of marble rip from the mantle and smash right next to my head. Even though I have my ears covered, the crashing makes them ring. “Fuck!”

I get up, not sparing a moment to look at the swirling black shadow that has formed a mini-tornado in the middle of my living room, and stumble to the staircase. The panels making up the first two steps rip off and fly back behind me, so I hop over them and make my way up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. 

I’m one step away from the second floor when suddenly my foot falls through. I go straight down, forming an impromptu split on the steps and smashing my balls against the wood. It doesn’t feel great. 

I throw myself up onto the landing, rolling over once before jumping back to my feet. The stairs are only about half there, but that doesn’t stop the cloud from beginning to rise to my level. It feels like it’s sucking the air out from inside my lungs, so I sprint across the landing to the stairs up to the tower just to get a breath.

It wasn’t a good idea to run up the tower stairs. For one, the space is tiny- this mother fucker followed me right up. Bricks fly out from the walls surrounding me and swirl down to meet the tornado; the stairs rattle so hard I can barely feel my feet. My night light is shattered against a wall.

When I get to the top I throw the door shut and push myself against it. There’s only a moment of silence before the tornado seems to catch up- the door rattles and tugs on its hinges. All I can do is press myself against it to try and keep it shut, but the frame surrounding it is starting to strain. All the furniture in the room shudders like they know they’re next to be destroyed once the tornado is done with me.

“Luke!”

My head snaps up. 

“Luke, over here!” 

“Penny?” I shout, looking around the room. The door behind me gives a big heave, and then slowly starts to bend at the middle as the force behind sucks at it.

“Luke!” She shouts again. It’s then that I realize she’s at the window. Three stories up. And she’s a bird. A robin. Her beak isn’t moving, but her voice comes from it sounding like an old megaphone. “Luke, you have to destroy the necklace!”

“The what?” I shout, “What the fuck am I on right now?!”

“You have to break your necklace!”

I gape at the bird for just a second. The door behind me gives a loud _ crack. _

“With a sword!” She squawks.

“Where.” The door cracks again, and I realize I should start tugging against it. I wrap my hand around the handle and begin tugging in the opposite direction. The handle is freezing. “Where the FUCK am I supposed to get a sword?!”

“You need to repeat after me. Then, right at the end, you have to catch the sword and break the necklace. You have to hurry!”

“Penny!”

“Just trust me! Take off your necklace and repeat after me!”

I reach back with one hand and unhook it. The warm metal digs into my fist.

“ _ In justice. In courage. In defense of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and…!” _

I fall on my back with the force with which the door is pulled away from me. The swirling mass starts forward without hesitation. It engulfs me, pulling the air from deep inside of me. Squeezing my lungs tight like raisins inside of me.

“And good! Luke! And  _ good _ . Say GOOD!”

I gasp, clawing at my bare neck. The necklace sits on the ground just out of my reach, but nothing makes sense save for the blackness swirling around my head. My eyes feel like they’re going to pop out. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.

I never got to have a family.

“ _ And good. _ ” 

A voice fills my ears, replacing the whooshing emptiness the cloud took from them. Then a cool hardness fills my hand until I’m holding a sword against my own neck.

I throw myself forward, swinging wildly at the ground as I desperately try to find the necklace. I can’t see. I can’t think. All I can do is swing and gasp and swing and swing and-

My vision starts to go red. The swirling blackness changes hues until everything goes red. And then it pops, like a balloon inside another balloon. Or like a net, growing from within the tornado and suddenly snapping shut around the cloud. 

The force throws me onto my back. I gasp for breath. Sweet air fills my lungs and I suck it down as if I’ve never breathed before. 

And I’m looking at myself.

Same hair, same mouth, same stupid freckles covering my face. I wonder, for a moment, if the ghost has conjured a mirror. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that has happened today.

Except, it’s not me.

He’s taller than me by a few inches and he’s a little stockier too. There are crows feet at the corners of his eyes, and his eyes are a dusty blue that put my brown ones to shame. He’s standing with a shocked look on his face, while I gulp for breath on the floor.

Plus, there are giant wings sprouting from behind his shoulders. 

My first instinct is to think he’s an angel, considering the wings and all. Maybe he’s my guardian angel, and that’s why he looks like me. He’s come from heaven to save me from this demon. There’s a sword at his hip- the sword I just used. They will battle and I’ll run for my fucking life as soon as everyone stops looking at me.

Or maybe I’m dead. And this is my entrance to the afterlife. I did just destroy a cross; I can't say I think God would be too happy about that.

The wings aren’t feathered nor white, but red and leathery. At second glance I see a roped tail curling down from behind him.

He’s a demon. I’m going to hell. 

There’s not much I can do but stare and pant and hold my raw throat as the shimmering, winged version of me manifests into the room. He starts out slightly translucent, but in a few moments, he looks as solid as Penny-the-bird. I expect him to turn to me and demand something, he looks the type, but he doesn’t. Instead, he immediately turns to the still swirling cloud which is now the size of a man.

“Baz,” He breathes, lifting a hand. He has a British accent, further testifying that I’m not just looking at a mirror. I want to run over and stop him- push him over and carry him from the room. I don’t know what ‘Baz’ means, or what he thinks it’ll do to get rid of that monster. I don’t know him, but he doesn’t deserve to be demolished by this evil creature. But I’m frozen to the floor. 

The swirling mass instantly lights up in blue flames at the sound of the man’s voice. A glittery substance makes a mess on the floor. 

It was that simple? Just one word and it’s over?

It’s over- it’s-

There’s a man standing in its place.

And It’s  _ him _ . 

He’s gasping, himself thrown out of sorts as he doubles over and grips his knees. He squints, looking at the floor with a bewildered expression. His hands are shaking.

It’s the same man featured in the painting. His long black hair dusts his shoulders and his nose looks a little too high on his face. He’s not crying- instead, his confused eyes find the winged me for a moment, expression wary and confused, and then he’s barreling towards him. 

They embrace in a hug. The other me wraps his arms around the man to keep him upwards, tendons visible as he hugs him to his chest. The other man holds him equally as tight, though his arms wrap around his waist. As I watch, the two of them become more and more solid. They look almost too real- like an over-realistic drawing.

“Oh, Simon. It’s you,” he cries into the other me- Simon’s neck. His voice is grating, but it’s muffled by being pressed into Simon’s skin. 

“It’s me, Baz. I’m here.”

“Simon I... I waited for you. I waited and waited until I couldn’t hold on. Until I wasn’t me anymore,” He sniffs, then, as if it wasn’t confusing enough, he lifts his head and looks at Simon head on. His expression is sour, nose scrunched up. “Where were you?”

Simon laughs wetly, pressing a kiss to the other man’s cheek.

“I was in the necklace. It didn’t work.”

_ In the necklace?  _ Like,  inside _? My  _ necklace?

I put that thing in my _mouth._

“Of course it didn’t. I told you it wouldn’t.” I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Worse, I feel like I’m watching something I shouldn’t be watching. The two seem content ignoring me, or maybe they haven’t noticed me. Either way, I’m not too keen on interrupting considering the fact that Baz has been trying to kill me. 

Simon doesn’t seem to be hurt by the scolding. Instead, he laughs again, pressing his nose into the other man’s cheek. 

“It brought me here, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, a hundred years later,” Baz says, cupping the back of Simon’s head. 

“It’s hardly been a hundred years.”

“What year is it?” Suddenly they’re both looking at me. I open my mouth. Everything inside of me is dry. 

“20...20,” I croak. Baz stares at me for a long moment. His eyes are the same ones I’ve stared at every time I walk past the painting- save for the tears. They’re grey and clear and tilted downwards. He stares at me like he’s trying to figure something out, but doesn’t know what it is. 

“Who are you?” Baz asks, lip curling up in a sneer. He’s hanging over Simon, but he starts to pull away from him like he wants to approach me. I scuttle back on the floor, but Simon’s arms tighten around his body. “What are you doing here?”

“Luke,” Simon resolves, nodding at me. I tear my eyes from Baz to look up at Simon. My head is spinning. He looks exactly like me. I don’t know how he knows my name. “He freed me.“

“Uh… y..why do you look like me?” I blurt.

“ _ You _ look like  _ him _ ,” Baz retorts quickly. Simon rolls his eyes, but there’s a bright smile on his face. He looks seconds from bubbling over into laughter- as if this isn’t the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to anyone in the entire world. 

“Well, I’m not so sure about that myself.” He frowns at me for a moment as if he’s calculating something. It’s strange to see my own face scrunching up in thought. “You don’t know how we’re related? Or how you got the necklace? Nobody ever mentioned me?”

For a second I wonder why anyone would mention him. Then I remember that he has giant red wings, and imagine that anyone would probably want to tell their grandkids about McMonster over here. 

“No, um, sir.” I don’t know why I call him sir. Simon flinches. Baz stifles a laugh. “I never knew my family.”

There’s a sad and sudden softness then in Simon’s eyes. He rubs a hand over Baz’s side and then unwraps himself from him. Baz hangs back like some sort of glowering vampire as Simon extends a hand. I grab it and am shocked to find that he’s solid- I almost expected to fall through him.

He shakes my hand. Firm and secure and warm.

“Well, you know me now. And  _ we’re _ clearly family.”

I gape at him for a moment too long, lifting my hand to my neck when he releases me to return to Baz. There’s nothing to grab there anymore. I didn’t even see where the necklace went. 

_ Simon _ was in the necklace…

Simon has been with me for as long as I can remember. 

_ Simon is the uncle. _

“I… um… The house... being passed down to me? You did that on purpose?”

“Yeah, no. Just luck. We’re just lucky you were around. We had just moved in when... it all happened. This house belongs to Baz’s family, but since Baz was the last Pitch...” He glances at Baz, who seems unbothered, “It got passed to me. I didn’t live here for long, though. Dumb luck that this all got placed on you."

“So you didn’t... decorate.” 

Baz snorts at me as he lifts his head to look around the room. Aside from the bed, I’ve changed everything. 

“Bit minimal, isn’t it? Is that the style now?” Baz asks. Simon is watching him closely.

“Baz,” I watch as Simon crosses over, pushing a hand through Baz’s hair. Baz immediately goes quiet, looking up at him like he hung the stars. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

It’s too much for me to be watching, so I look away. My ankle is really starting to hurt now that everything’s calming down. I’m sitting on the floor with my legs spread out, and, from my position, it looks like my ankle is crooked.

“Luke,” Simon says, after the two mumble to each other for a few moments. When I look up the two of them are standing and holding hands. They’re facing each other, but Simon has his head turned to me. “We have to go now. Thank you for helping us.”

“Y- where are you going?” I don’t understand the dip in my gut that I feel. These two have done nothing but torment me for weeks. But Simon is my family. Which makes Baz my family too. 

Simon smiles at me, looking a little sad. 

“Well. I killed myself,” He shrugs, “Accidents happen.”

“But… you can’t go. You… can’t leave me alone.”

“You’re hardly alone, Snow,” Baz says to me, nodding towards the window. I hadn’t thought to check if Penny was still there. She's not, but I nod, rubbing the heel of my palm into my eye. 

“But I just met you… I’ve never known- I don’t want you to-”

“You have a family,” Baz says plainly. He looks kind, in a snobby kind of way, when he’s not attacking me. Baz pauses then, considering something silently before nodding once. His voice is slow. I'm certain I've heard it before today. “Thank you.” 

I nod back, unsure of how to respond.

Just then, as if all that needed to be said was said, the two of them begin to fade. Their color goes first until I’m watching them as if they were in an old movie.

“We’ll see you on the other side, Luke,” Simon says. His voice sounds far away. I can see the shattered door through Simon’s translucent abdomen. “I promise. Live your life, Luke.”

And then they’re gone. 

The house is silent. Devoid of life. 

I realize that, for the first time in my life, I am truly alone. 

I thought I knew what it felt like to be alone when I moved in. I thought that the thrumming feeling of someone just behind my shoulder was the feeling of being alone. I thought that the warmth in my necklace was my own skin’s warmth- something created all by myself.

I’ve never truly been alone in my life. 

It’s quiet. And it’s cold. 

And then, as abruptly as it starts, it’s over.

“Oh, god, Luke. Your ankle,” Penny exclaims, immediately falling to the ground to inspect my leg. Shepard enters the room just after her, stepping around the debris that’s cluttered around the room. His eyes are wide behind his glasses. 

“Are you okay? What happened?” Shepard asks, standing just behind his wife.

I look at them and open my mouth. Penny is placing her wedding ring against my ankle. A purple light rises from it before it snaps back into place. She looks at my face. Her eyes are wide with concern. Something about her makes the whole room seem brighter.

“They were here?” She asks when I don’t answer. “Simon and Basilton?”

I nod. 

She stares at me for a moment, looking thoughtful. Then she lifts her hand and pushes my hair from my face. It’s a delicate motion.

There are tears streaming down my face that I didn’t notice before. I feel my stomach shudder. 

“I can’t believe we missed them,” Shepard jokes, bending down and picking up my necklace from the ground. The chain is broken open, and the gold is tarnished by burnt-black spots. He places it in his pocket. “Not very neighborly of old Basilton.”

Penny gives him a sharp look over her shoulder. 

“Help me carry him,” She says, “His ankle is still too weak.”

I think about arguing, but I’m not sure what to say. Penny places her ring against my stomach and says “ _ Light as a feather _ ,” before Shepard bends down and lifts me up.

Being carried is a weird feeling. His arms are under my knees and behind my back. They feel too broad. I don’t think anyone has ever touched me for as long as Shepard does.

I remember what Baz said. 

I press my face into his shoulder. 

He sets me down on the bed and sits down next to me. My tears dampen his plaid shirt.

A moment later the mattress dips again, and Penny’s arm wraps around my back. She rests her chin on my shoulder.

I spend the night at their house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok now time to get emotional!!!!!
> 
> this is the longest fic I've ever written, and the first chaptered fic that I've ever completed in my whole life, so finishing this is a really emotional experience for me!!! I've grown so much in my writing, and just generally as a person, since starting this story. I feel like this fic has fundamentally changed how I feel about writing, and it has made me want to write more and more. I've also had a lot of fun confusing the hell out of people and over-describing what old houses look like.
> 
> thank you to peach for helping me figure out major plot issues, jay for FREQUENTLY encouraging me, and vin and river for their lovely, BEAUTIFUL, GORGEOUS fic art. These all mean the WORLD to me and I couldn't have finished this without you!!!!!!!!!
> 
> and, last but absolutely not least, thank you all so much for your support, kudos, & lovely comments. I'm so excited to be able to bring the end of this story to you especially since you've all been so kind throughout this entire process. 
> 
> thank you so much for joining me on this journey!!!
> 
> stay safe!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading. If you want to see content between updates, late night ramblings or if you just want to yell at me feel free to check me out on [Tumblr!!!!!](https://motherscarf.tumblr.com/)  
> Updates & goofy stuff are posted under the “ghost fic” tag.  
> Also listen to the ghost fic playlist [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5IiKfURJy4KLZMd6BqmZ83?si=m8fNtfQ2TDGHwJbMUFsySQ)  
> Thanks again! :)


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